Angus Mackay Diaries Volume IV (1977-1983)

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 42

Tuesday November 1 1977 David Buck told me that the London critics had been in last night, and that they'd written bad notices. Well.

I wasn't too good tonight - my concentration wasn't there. A rather silly audience, and of course his remarks about the critics hadn't helped, I suppose.

But whatever the cause, I must learn to concentrate, to grip myself and the audience more firmly.

Wednesday November 2 1977

Dear Miriam Myloe came tonight, all the way from Cheltenham with Tony Rousefell. He was slightly less acidulated than before. I took them out to supper at Renato's opposite the theatre. Fairly primitive, paper napkins, vegetables on the plate etc.

When they left, there was a gap while my taxi arrived. That is when a great grey cloud descends, and I dare not think. Or it will affect tomorrow's show.

Grief can't be shared.

Thursday November 3 1977

Power cut during matinee. Audience stimulated.

Lovely house tonight - I was best yet.

Friday November 4 1977

4.30 p.m. during a power cut.

If I am to go on with this diary, it must become less boring. It is of course a help to write about my depression at the end of a day. Something like the comfort of talking to a friend comes to me, but of course the diary entry as it were, represents what has been missing in the day instead of what has been present in it. I did always mean my diary to be an entertaining recapture of the moment. Now that D. is dead, I must try to put my happiness, and not my misery, down.

So for a start, I was much amused to hear someone asked if the Queen was bearing the strain of the Jubilee tours well, reply heartily, 'Oh, she has stood up to it enormously'.

The play has had sniffy notices from the London papers. I would imagine that would put paid to any idea of a London transfer. I never thought it would transfer, and the part is not ideal for me to play in London, tho' I think I'm not bad in it by now. I don't quite see why the critics have been so rude to poor Jonathan Raban (quite nice to us.) If I were criticising this play, I would damn it with faint praise rather than get at all insulting. I think the point of the play, that reality cannot be escaped, a good one. The play rather lacks dramatic vitality than anything else, and if the four of us didn't know what we are doing, it would often fall flat on the boards, in a way that any play of Noel C's, for instance, however bad in other ways, wouldn't.

The other actors are all nice, tho' it took me some time to see that. Marty Cruckshank was nice. She is an abrupt, aggressive girl - well, 34! But her immaturity makes her seem younger, and her defiant ungraciousness hides a warm heart, I think. Unhappily she still equates frankness with honesty. She is very good in the play, I'd say, but may be a little overdone from the front. Sheila Ballantine and David Buck have something in common. Warm, easy-going, ebullient, through both waves of emotion and gusts of feeling easily blow, so that both are thoroughly actors, but alas that fine sense of scale and judgment is finally lacking, in different ways in each, so that for example, they vary too much each night, and a clear line of thought is not there. David B. gets himself thro' by shouting, suddenly and dramatically (oh the depression of that word) on an apparently capriciously chosen word. Or, told to correct me kindly and quietly by Eric T, when I call him by his real name that he doesn't wish to hear, he has, after a perf. or two, reverted to the rising shout of rage which is more immediately attractive to him (and easier to do) but of course renders that part of the play dangerously monotonous. He simply likes the sound of his voice raised, so raises it. Like smokers, including a cigarette in their performance regardless. Sheila B. lets the emotion flood thro' her, impressively at times, and gives the impression of great naturalness. but she becomes inaudible sometimes, and at rehearsals betrayed startling ignorance of what the lines actually meant. That doesn't stop her delivering them like an angel - sometimes.

There is a way in which I sometimes feel I can't really act at all - just make amusing remarks in public with more or less success. Nobody ever seems very interested in my acting. I like to think that is because I do work to make it not look like acting.

The hotel is just across the road from the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Sometimes, when the sun is out, or a thunderstorm is on the way, the view is very dramatic, like a Poussin - I think, the dark green of the trees in the gorge, and the line of the bridge that even I think is beautiful, strung across it. One day, a young mounted policeman walked his horse past us on a sunny day, reached the grass of the downs, and horse and rider decided to gallop at the same moment.

12.10 p.m.

House very full and good. Felt at ease almost throughout for the first time. John, Joyce and David tomorrow. Gosh.

Sunday November 6 1977

They arrived after the show, and were gratifyingly complimentary about me and sensible about the play. I had lunch on Sat. with Kathleen Barker, the Secy of the Society for Theatre Research and she came, too, which was all right as she is sensible and informed. We four then went off to Michael's Restaurant. A blind choice, but really quite excellent. What was a shop has been turned into a charming Victorian drawing-room with a coal fire, and big sofas; the warehouse beyond is delightful - fresh flowers in the Gents! - interesting menu, all was delicious, except the vegs. Met Michael himself, who explains much about the place. They laid a fresh table for six or seven, who sat down well after twelve.

Joyce is still shy and a bit spiky, and should not tell David off in public. She is very bossy with him sometimes, as well as keeping him on a string. But what a rare girl, all the same. John forced things a bit - kept saying 'I hope everyone is having as good a time as I am' and told a very unfunny rather frenzied story about people none of us knew. But what a good friend he's been to me. So where are you? I like David more and more. There were moments when I wished we were alone to have a quiet talk away from the two spoiled children!

This morning we walked over the suspension bridge and around Clifton. Very enjoyable. I was tired when they'd gone, as we were at the rest. till 1.30 a.m. So I lay down. After dinner, watched the Bulshoi in Nutcracker. Hideous decor and most of costumes. Dreary version, too.

Monday November 7 1977

Had Hedley Goodall to lunch. About 65-ish, remember him on the radio before the war. Diffident, and has always lived here; Jeanne Watts' teacher, which accounts for her humility and diffidence a little, I expect. But very agreeable and amusing.

House a little strange tonight, some silly laughers, some very quick, some too quick. Heard after there was a party of American tourists in front. Oh dear.

Thursday November 10 1977

Two late nights. On Tuesday night to Val Lorraine's. Knew her in '59. A warm vague, excellent-hearted muddled woman. Nine of us sat down to a rather scrambled meal, for which she kept apologising. I was very bright, and kept the table in a roar, rather despised myself for it afterwards, but oh why do other people take so long to tell stories. Attractive house, rather ram- shackle, poor furniture, set back sideways from the road, Grosvenor Lodge. Walked back to hotel in usual grey despair that comes over me at the end of every evening with people, now.

Last night Julian came, and had me to dinner in Renato's. Sweet man, but nasty food, very cheap. George Rowell and his wife came. Thought them both rather dim and second-rate. How is one to describe such people differently? She is dowdy in dress (very) in the dreariest way, wears no make-up and appears to have nothing above the average housewife about her. She is a schoolmistress. He is quite a well-known scholar at the Drama Dept. and is self-deprecating in a useless way, just to get out of being positive. No wonder Julian likes them. But I am ashamed of saying to David B. I was bored when I asked him to join us.

Thursday November 10 1977

Matinee day. Very proper audience, who retreated a million miles at the bad language in the afternoon.

Eric came in the evening, when it had gone splendidly, and was very complimentary. Good. I am liking David Buck more and more.

Sunday November 13 1977

Two late nights. Myles and his brother, Keith Rudge, came to the play, and I took them to Michael's. Another delicious meal, and the welcome was delightful. We had a nice long drink with Michael. He is a very pleasant mild artless man, with a face that would be good-looking only it seems to have melted a bit, and a very good figure. I told him I had only two criticisms, that there were paper napkins, and the salt thing was difficult to use. We ate delicious cucumber soup with prawns; I had pheasant, Miles had veal kidneys and Keith had venison, all very good indeed. The pheasant was in a very hot earthenware dish, three slices of the breast and a leg, with a creamy sauce, with calvados in it and apple. (Don't suppose the calvados made much difference!) Myles hadn't liked the play, and agreed with the critics. Keith tried to explain the workings of a garage to Michael.

At lunchtime, David Buck and I had been to the Royal Hotel, to talk about the play, and act bits of it, to some French IBM (whatever that may be) executives, here on an English course. Oh dear. Rather a strain, and the lunch was awful to put before even crude Frenchmen.

Last night Neil came, all the way from Leicester, where he opens as Gratiano on Wed. He is the sweetest-natured chap. Susan and William and Charlotte turned up too, and seemed to have enjoyed it. I took Neil to Michael's, and was moved to find the table laid with silver salt-cellars and napkins in silver rings. Another beautiful meal, and Neil got on a treat with Michael as he does with everyone. He stayed the night and we walked round Clifton under clear blue skies and sunshine. He is going to drive me home tho' it means driving all the way from Leicester, and then to London, and then to Leicester.

Watched Remembrance Service at the Cenotaph on television, the Queen always moves me.

Remember me, remember me and forget my pain. I do, I do, my only darling, I do try.

Monday November 14 1977

To Peter and Felicity Firth's. Till the first night I hadn't seen them since 1951. Charming children, and a great big house, rather tastelessly decorated, but a warm home all the same. Felicity is a strong character, strong enough to allow Peter to think he is. He is still rather tryingly naif, like John Warner. Two nice quick people also there whose names I didn't catch, tho I asked twice! I said charming children, except for the eldest boy, Julian, who was expelled from Clifton for passing cannabis. He came in sullenly, halfway thro' dinner, small, scruffy, shifty-looking. He's sixteen but looks less. And yet - he could be the archetype of the wretchedness of being sixteen. Suddenly he will put on world-weary forty-year-old 'mundanity'. I've asked him to the play and supper afterwards. I think there is something there, and who knows, I might help? He responded quite well sitting next to me. He made me, inside, laugh and cry at the memory of myself at that age and what a muddle I was in.

At lunch Peggy, Ann and Ronnie. He is very hide-bound, and can't even hear anything outside his own ideas. Apart from that, it was all quite soothing - she's no nice.

Tuesday November 15 1977

The chaplain, Neville Boundy, came to lunch. Diffident, too apt to undercut himself, but good. We had a talk about the Firths, whom of course he knows well. I am glad to say that he sees them as I do, tho' I have only glanced once in 28 years. He said, 'If only Peter would stop being tolerantly understanding, the boy might have a chance.’ I might just help.

Malk came after the show to supper at Renato's - How people attract certain things! There was a party of 40 amateurs from the Hippodrome, occupying the whole of the rest of the part of the place we were in. Deafening. Malk was his usual dear self, tho' he is also limited like Ronnie R. and Peggy Ann. Also his nasty side - about 'Once a Catholic' he said 'My favourite bit was when the nun came back and put the boot in the second time'. Hateful. He also told me that Margaret Davies had sent a message to say that she couldn't come but didn't mind because it didn't sound the sort of play that would suit me.! Really, how either she or Malk could think I could be pleased to hear such a remark! But, all the same, Malk is an admirable character in so many ways, independent, self-reliant, conscientious, funny. Alas, our tastes and taste don't often coincide.

Thursday December 15 1977

Retrospective.

I was too tired after the last entry at Bristol to write more. So much entertaining.

The following day I had Enid Gibson to lunch. A small defeated-looking woman, with very short hair dyed quite a likely dull blonde, whom I was really surprised to find was 68. She 'lost her husband' about four years ago, and was at B'ham Univ. with D. Alas she remembered nothing of D. so was there under false pretences as far as I was concerned. However, I may have given her a little comfort. That evening the CORT conference came to the play. The party afterwards was an ordeal, as I met Reggie, Roger Clissold, Malk, many others I have forgotten, and finally David Kelsey. I don't know why this finished me but it did and I had to go home. I was quite interested that they were all impressed by the evening. Reggie said, 'You were very good' with a rather incredulous inflection. David Kelsey's letter afterwards was a fountain of praise, saying that I'd given a great performance. Well, really, you know. I expect he says that to all the girls - boys.

The next day I went to Bath, went round some inferior bookshops, lunched at a niceish restaurant called the Laden Table. Other guests possible, fresh flowers on the table, celeriac soup (not that it really tasted of celeriac) and cheapish wine. That night went to the sound man's for supper. Craig Neil is queer and said so on a programme about gay clubs on the television, somewhat to my surprise! I like him much, and although the supper was in the modern style, an hour to wait for the first course, (which was only pate, so why...!) knives and forks in a lump, and so on, he had gone to a lot of trouble with four courses. Other people so nice, our two darling ASMs, Jill Dickins and June Burrough, Jill D's very pleasant and intelligent husband, and a silent little man, who told me in the car that he was working with a Youth Theatre touring around. 'I gave up the theatre for seven years, and came back to it. Yes, I'm married, with three children.' Oh dear. Craig is a dear and very relaxed for his age, which is 23, - I think. Didn't get to bed till 2.0, because of the slow meal, oh dear again.

The next day was Julian firth, still scruffy, still sullen, still - but no, over dinner he became intelligent, articulate, charming, making most useful comments on the play, for example, mentioning the irrelevance of the Rod Steward song as entrance music (I had thought it was a woman at first) and making one or two heartrending remarks, like 'A hundred times a day I condemn myself out of hand', 'I don't show my sensitive side' Of course, he may still be very sly.

The next morning was a Theatregoers' coffee morning, and I forgot it. Bother. The last night moved me as always. When will I be on a stage again? Dear Miriam came again and climbed all the stairs to my room. Really she is a dear woman.

Back to London and the house. Miss Pattison had taken the dust-sheets off the drawing-room and turned the fires on so it was not too bleak. But still it was difficult. And yet I love the house very very much. Spent the next three days cleaning the house and getting used to cooking again, for Edna. Edna arrived, and my taxi was, of course, late, and she was coming off the platform with her case. The week was, I think, a success, tho' a strain for me. And of course the continuous emotional strain of missing D. Edna said at the end that she'd dreaded coming.

The fist play we saw was Alan Bennett's 'Old Country'. Most interesting play which I long to read, because the whole thing was clouded by the poverty of the acting, except for Alec Guinness, who could not be faulted or bettered. John Phillips in especial, missed the centre and the surface of his part, which was a very good one.

The next day, which was dear Neil's b'day, we went to John N's for dinner, a party of eight. Us, the Hansons, real people with good manners, Joyce, and a Mr. and Mrs. Hickson. He is quite high up in ICI, a rather ordinary man, with surprisingly dowdy clothes, cheap slip-on shoes, what looked like Woolworth socks, and a knitted beige cardigan with big buttons under an anonymous suit. Mrs Hickson was tall with iron-grey hair in a near Eton crop, black-velvet long-skirt suit with a shocking pink scarf tucked in at the neck, and an over-marked manner like a bad weekly rep. actress - at first. As she saw sitting next to me, that she didn't have to try so hard, and that in any case her hard-won timings and emphases were very déjà heard to me, she came off it and became more natural, and rather touching. It was so obvious that she seldom met anyone sympathetic. She told me of her son on the stage, and I said I'd do what I could. I hope I was sympathetic. Dinner was good - poor John had no main course as he hadn't made enough casserole, and sat smiling, at a plate with only gravy on it, fortunately hidden from me by the tureens. Edna thoroughly enjoyed herself, and stamped ahead of me down the stairs, when we left at about midnight, saying, 'Oh I do love a real do.'

On Sunday Prim came to dinner, and was at her best. She was wearing a white silk blouse with a jabot at the front, a black velvet waistcoat and a wrap-over grey and white tartan kilt-like skirt. Hair needed combing at the back as usual, how mysterious. I gave them a bottle of champagne, which had been in the cellar since the first night of 'What Every Woman Knows' Ends of pheasant as a starter, shoulder of lamb, bananas in rum. How intelligent Prim is when she isn't drunk.

On the Monday John and Joyce came to dinner, mushrooms and anchovies, do you know, I can't remember the main course, and chocolate brandy whip. I am so glad that Joyce and Edna met and liked each other. I hope Joyce goes on getting less and less shy as she has lately. A very pleasant evening to me as I felt I was building up my walls of friendship against despair. Gracious.

On Tuesday I took her to 'Filamena' the new Joan Plowright play at the Lyric. Again the supporting playing could have been very much improved. But Joan was wonderful, and Frank F. and Patricia Hayes very good, too.

Play less rich than 'Saturday, Sunday and Monday', but centred completely round Joan, so that for a time it slightly suffered from me expecting it to be like S S & M. Silly, but there you are, something of the fate of a sequel. Theatre absolutely packed, a queue out into the street when I went to book. Joan very touching in a breakdown at the end.

Beef casserole afterwards rather tough, I must remember to say to the butcher never to give me braising steak. Chuck steak is what I want. The next day, Wednesday, we went off to Hove to see Annette Montgomery Campbell, one of Edna's oldest friends. She is 87, and still a pre-1914 person and says so. 'Things have just gone on getting worse ever since.' Indeed, her conversation might be regarded as undiluted tumbril-talk. Her remarks on the lower class of the other customers were startling. The food is still good, and the service, tho' how long it will be so with the decline in the quality of the clients, I don't know. Edna and I had fresh local dabs, very good, then steak and kidney pie. - it was a very cold day. We bought her a box of Bendick mints, 1lb. £2.50!

On Thursday we went to the National to see 'Bedroom Farce' my second visit. Edna said of the foyer, 'What a triumph. You wouldn't know there was a theatre anywhere near'. It is certainly without any sense of mystery or awe. Expect awe at the lack of imagination. The lifts were out of order, no drinks for the interval could be ordered downstairs, so Edna couldn't have a drink. The theatre seats are comfortable, and we saw the play, but otherwise the theatre simply consists of the absence of things. The play was as before one of the dozen funniest I have ever seen. Edna thoroughly enjoyed it. We had a car waiting and went to Bianchi's for dinner, as it was her last night. Dear Elena, she makes that restaurant.

People bring on things that they are frightened of! Edna's travel panic caused a goods wagon to go off the rails outside Basingstoke, the 2.30 was cancelled and the 2.46 got her home at 7.0, instead of 5.0. Oh dear.

Went straight to the cinema from the station, and saw 'Annie Hall', the new Woody Allen, a lovely tender funny film. I was so tired and strained from looking after Edna and planning all those meals that I had to go out to loosen my nerves. Had a quiet dinner, and didn't sleep.

Spent the next three days getting the house ready to shut up again, and doing a little bit of Christmas shopping. Sunday lunch with dear Norman Comer and his dear little wife. Two boys, one a new baby. Odd to dandle a baby born in April, and a day or so later turn over my mother, aged 90, in bed. The day before I came away, I went to the dentist. Mr. Benziger's surgery is on the first floor of 7, Wimpole St. The waiting-room is about twenty feet sq., with family portraits and china cabinets. The house is owned by a family still. Indeed the dear old lady aged 90, who used to answer the door, and who died last month, used to live in the house. Her son and daughter find it difficult to run - I don't know why, as the rents of at least eight very distinguished dentists and doctors must be large. I had nothing to be done again - that must be for the last ten years running. A film at the Curzon, quite amusing about a maternity hospital, Czech, I think. A pity the hero was not as attractive as the heroine. To Bournemouth the next day, so was having dinner with John N. However, he was ill, and off work again, (having only been with the British Council a matter of a month or two) and so I took myself out to Bianchi's. While waiting for a taxi outside the Curzon - it was raining very hard indeed, and went on doing so all night, - I saw a tall well-dressed debby-looking girl in high heeled sandals, carrying a plastic bag of shopping. A car came along and drew up just by me - and I thought her husband or boyfriend had come to pick her up. She opened the door - and didn't get in. A short conversation - then 'Well, make up your mind or not. It's quite simple', - she was a prostitute. After I saw a lot of cars slow down, look at her, and pass on. Later she came and stood near me, and I had to act not looking in her direction very pointedly. Bianchi's delightful again.

Since coming to Bournemouth on December 8, - it is now December 19 - I have cooked a good deal and watched television a good deal and helped with lifting Mummy and thus, by my company and my help, boosted Lalla's morale. I don't think she realises how much she is keeping Mummy alive for herself. M. now bangs or pats all the time, more or less, unless drugged. Lalla doesn't like giving her all the drugs, because of seeing her sitting more or less insensible. I hate seeing her pat or bang for six or seven hours on end. I would prefer to sacrifice the very little of M. that is left, for the great deal of Lalla that is suffering.

Yesterday I heard that Julian was very seriously ill. An exploratory operation, bowel in a mess. Stayed in hospital to get fit for a major operation. I am so sorry for him. And also how incredible as yet another horror for this horrific year.

Tuesday December 20 1977

Another tiring nerve-wracking day. I find the absence of privacy most exhausting.

Mummy woken to be bathed by a minion of the district-nurse. The dreadful cheery manner of such women is often made fun of. One you start to deal with old people yourself, you see why they do it. The very old and senile need 'lifting' all the time to get them to do anything. To be 'cheery' is also an outlet for one's own irritation at the slowness and lack of response of the old, and the consequent extreme boredom of looking after them. It is better to be 'cheery' than openly irritable. It would be better still if pity was turned into love; I can't often get as high as that - not for long, anyway. And for that I admire Lalla.

But of course she does nothing else. How wonderful only to have to think about one thing and one person. She knows little or nothing about the pressures of the world outside.

Donald comes tomorrow. We talked of his not getting a job. I can't say I'm surprised, tho' even I am sorry for him. She said at one point, when I said I'd like to offer him a glass of wine just because he'd never offered me one and was now poor, so it was not the moment to stop offering him one, that he'd told her one night that he didn't really like drink, and it wasn't nice feeling fuzzy or waking up the next morning feeling stale. How like him, - I expect he believed it at the time. I allowed myself the comment that would explain why he had always drunk copiously of any drink we had provided, and never provided any for us. It was only good manners that had made him drink ours.

The doctor came today. Said it couldn't be long. Mummy looked very grey all today.

Wednesday December 21 1977

The shortest day. This terrible year is turning at last.

A most exhausting day. I never had a moment's quiet, and am so tired. The very pleasant cleaner, Brenda, all the morning, while soothing Mummy, who didn't sleep. Then Donald arrived before Lalla had got back from shopping. Then lunch, and Mummy. Then Donald took down the television aerial and nailed it up in another part of the drawing-room. Then tea, and Mummy. Then talk, and Donald left at 7.15. Then I cooked the dinner as usual, while Lalla put Mummy to bed; kidneys, bacon, celeriac and bubble and squeak, all a bit late. Then coffee and the television news. Lalla went to bed. I left the television set on because I was so on edge with lack of quiet, and watched a lovely argument about South Africa - a lot of grown-ups losing their tempers in public. I must do some gardening. Cold.

Thursday December 22 1977

Mild again. Early lunch, down to Bournemouth for a little shopping before picking up Edna and bringing her back for tea. She had taken a deceitfully early bus to look for a pair of trousers. Found none, or none that she liked. Her friend, Hester, says that trousers are going out. Fancy. Bought a new ash-plant for herself, and I sawed three ins. off it. She and Lalla get on so well, and exchanged reminiscences of the lovely walk to Gilvern along the canal. Mummy looking dead already, with her tongue handing sideways. Poor people, poor animal humans.

Dear Joyce rang up at exactly the right moment after Lalla had had long tiring talks with two of her friends. All against the background of cooking the dinner, watching Mummy, and doing the crossword with Lalla and being endlessly patient. Saw a sign 'Bed and Breakfast. Dinner optional'. Very, I should think.

Friday December 23 1977

Down to Bright's to get the pheasant. Plucked and drawn, but not trussed at all. Let alone larded.

Post arrived from house in a parcel. A wonderful letter from John G. Oh, I'm so glad. I would have so hated it for him, if he'd dropped me. 'Dorothy would not want you to be too sad'. Also a card from May Slade. It is obviously very bad.

Sat with Mummy in the afternoon. She is comfortable on the sofa for a time if you let her lean against your shoulder. She certainly produces lapidary phrases for the moribund. A few days ago, she kept saying 'Give me a hand over the bridge'. Today she kept repeating, 'Do let me go free'.

Tonight watched Perry Como's Olde English Christmas for the sake of John Curry, whom I'd never seen before. He is an Artist.

Saturday December 24 1977

A difficult day. There was a terrific gale in the night, which brought down a great section of the fence, and broke down the rosemary bush at the corner of the house. Mummy shat herself in the bed twice during the night, and twice during the morning, so Lalla did the washing.

On the way to the shops I visited Iris Snell, who complained delicately all the time. Gwen Catchpole came in and complained for an hour and a half in the early evening. I was very tired because of the shitting. I again did not open my book nor have a minute to myself or even be alone for a minute. I don't think Lalla understands that really, at all. (Not that I ever mention it.)

I wish she would let Mummy die more quickly. She takes such trouble to get her to eat a few mouthfuls. Why?

Sunday December 25 1977

What a pale shadow of a Christmas compared with others that poor Lalla has known. She was so good about letting it be pale.

I don't think I could bear television because it would wear me out. There was a programme tonight of 'home movies', private films taken of Christmases in the 1920's and 1930's. I don't like the past continually brought back. I liked the Queen's speech best again, as I always do. Short, because she felt we'd have enough of her this year, and accepting all the success of the Jubilee on behalf of us all. She takes herself really out of it all.

I have not felt especially desolate today, partly, I suppose, because we have always found Christmas such a strain on patience and strength. Lalla has always liked it best, as she loves children and old people. As John G. said in his letter, 'I have never liked these popular holiday anniversaries'.

Monday December 26 1977

A beautiful bright day. Worked in the garden from 10.30 ish to 12.30 ish and made it look a good deal better. The Cistus are doing very well in this near-sand.

Mummy very restless and unnoticing today. Upset her coffee and patted it. Put her hand in her Christmas pudding, but Lalla thought she actually ate less than she ever has, and noticed a 'change'.

The mimosa is growing.

Tuesday December 27 1977

Gwen Catchpole and Pauline Callard came round this morning to give us an hour off to go for a walk. Pauline C. was head of the teacher training college at Wimbledon and - I think, the head of all teacher training. At least she was appealed to by the Times on such subjects. Her brother, Sir Jack C., has retired from being head of I.C.I. A typical career spinster, especially in appearance. A repressed clipped speech, with much shortened vowels. S. specially funny to hear her say she felt more people should express more emotion. but sad, too, because perhaps she feels she should have expressed (and felt?) more. Kind of them to come.

Mummy ate more or less nothing today, and pulled and tugged and clutched all day, and fidgeted with the sheets all evening.

Charlie Chaplin died on Christmas Day. I felt nothing, tho' I am a great admirer, I suppose because he has been in the past so long.

Wednesday December 28 1977

In the morning to B'mouth to change Lalla's bedroom slippers - present from Donald - at Marks and Spencers. Shut. Also to buy my food for tomorrow at Bright's. Shut. We both went, while Brenda was cleaning.

In the afternoon to Dorothy Fontaine's for tea. Edna gave me two photo-frames. D.F .gave me a ceamonthan and helianthemuium of sorts. Very sweet. Tea of cucumber sandwiches, chocolate fingers, and Christmas cake. Mummy did not speak all day.

Thursday December 29 1977

Home, home, dear sweet Home. There's no place like Home. There's no-o place like Home.

Friday December 30 1977

Very tired today, but not unpleasantly so. Went to the Curzon cinema to see the film of 'Spartacus' with the Colshoi ballet. Not too tiresome, as films of ballet often are. And the dancing superb. Vladimir Vassilyer as S is noble in body and spirit. Afterwards went to spend my Christmas book tokens. To think I used to be able to get two or three books for a pound. Now my £8 from Lalla, Prim and Auntie and Uncle, needed £4.50 added to it to buy the first volume of the Hardy letters. There are to be 7 volumes. This one takes one up to 1892, just after Tess when he was fifty-something. Did he write so many more letters in the last thirty years, or are more of the early ones lost? Mysterious. A big lorry in Piccadilly had on its front, 'Brain Haulage'. !

Saturday December 31 1977

May Slade rang at nine fifteen to tell me I could see Julian at eleven. As the hospital is in St. John's Wood, I had to have a car, as I wasn't even shaved or had any tea when she rang. It was hideous to be walking hospital corridors again. J. was looking almost normal, a little thinner perhaps, but seemed otherwise as ever. Very matter-of-fact about the major operation on Tuesday. I wish I could think that I would be.

Did all the shopping for this second wretched holiday weekend on my way home. After lunch somehow could not stay in the house - went to see a film about the Scottish comedian, Billy Connolly, wonderful charm and vitality. And fart jokes do make me laugh, so there you are.

The evening, with spag-bog for dinner, passed in complete silence. I opened my window just now at 12.0 to hear bells, perhaps. Dear nice ordinary Mr. Cook had done so, too, and said, 'Happy New Year' across the street.

So this terrible year is finished - with a morning visit to another hospital - but finished. And most terrible is that I now have to say 'My wife died last year'.

Sunday January 1 1978

Meant to do a lot today and felt tired and did nothing. Read Harold Owen's Aftermath in one gulp, and the Sunday papers and had a long talk to Neil D. and Norman Comer. Washed two scarves and a pair of socks. Must start on clearing hall and stairs.

Monday January 2 1978

A little better. Swept the front and washed down the paint-work, polished the paint-work, polished the brasses. Wrote some letters. To Prim's for dinner in the evening, smoked mackerel, veal artichoke and little beans, and stilton, a white wine just called Vin de Famille, (not quite so ordinaire, I suppose, and very light) and a really good Margaux, '72. Prim at her best, which is saying something.

Long telephone chat with Myles R. who'd seen the panto at Bristol and said it was thin.

Tuesday January 3 1977

Norman Comer came in the morning for coffee, and to look at the tile that wants putting in, in the hall. He is a dear kind young man, most depressed about not getting work, yet whenever he tells a joke or quotes a line from a play, I see why, as his timing and delivery are so poor I am too embarrassed to listen. Poor boy, I gave him such comfort as I could. Lunch in the drawing- room as I'd lit the fire for N.C. and then to get my hair cut. It's now £1.20. To film of 'Valentino'. Nuregev not so vulgar as I'd expected. Film even worse. Hopelessly inept and inaccurate and clumsy. And lots of money seen to be spent pointlessly. Oh dear, Ken Russell is like a bad weekly rep director of olden time. Came out after about three-quarters of an hour. Bought Punch for 1927. Rang Julian's hospital - he answered! Operation put off till a week tomorrow. So I felt all my worry and his! - wasted. Rang Joyce. Asked me for Sunday - lovely. Oh what misery John N's brother and his wife are going to be in with their children.

Wednesday January 4 1977

To Kit and Di Barclay's in Redcliffe Gardens for dinner. They are dear good police people, and their children are equally nice and well-mannered. Henrietta is 11 and Charles 14, though he looks older being already quite tall. Both are almost without self-consciousness without being in the least forward. Kit is - I forget the title - but in charge of all State banquets with getting on for half-a-million to spend. His mild manners and manner, hide a keen and subtle brain. Di is the dear she has always been. I hope we see more of one another. Alas she does not cook over well. The dinner was eatable but no more. Still, a pretty room and a vitrine full of pretty old family bits and pieces, seals and coins and an ivory back-scratcher and suchlike. The house is just past the junction of Old Road and Redcliffe Gdns. No 88 and very noisy. I suppose the expense of two families and the two children at school force them to stay there.

Thursday January 5 1977

Shopping in the morning, as at last I didn't feel tired. If you have to have a supermarket, let it be Sainsbury's. Everything seems good of its kind, and all their packets are pleasantly designed.

Did a lot in the afternoon. Finished all my letters and emptied the hall bookcase ready for the decorating.

Rang Julian and said I'd go tomorrow. Rang Lalla who 'Wolf wolfed' as usual. I wish she wouldn't. According to her, Mummy has been going to die tomorrow for the last three months. She also said when I told her of the bookcase, 'You’re not going to put it back, are you? Because your hall's so narrow anyway.' Oh dear. Well, that's family talk, I suppose!

Sue Worth rang up and was tiresomely sentimental, I was surprised. She talked of her dead husband to me, as I have never allowed myself to talk of Dorothy to myself.

Friday February 17 1978

Today would have been our twentieth wedding anniversary. Monday March 27 1978

I have been asked, and accepted, to play Tartuffe in 'Tartuffe' at the Thorndike Theatre in Leatherhead, from which I went away with a flea in my ear, after an interview in 1952.

Thursday March 30 1978

Again and again, I go through a day, and do all that I have to do, get the meals, clean the house, rehearse and get a meal again, ring up friends, listen to a bit of music, read, read, read, and still feel there is something I haven't done, something I have got to do, and that is to talk to her, to see her, to

Friday April 28 1978

I am a success in 'Tartuffe', and would have been better had the director, Jeremy Young, not been such an insecure and jumpy man. His ideas are good, sometimes, but he is neurotic, jumps and weak. I am afraid we quarrelled.

My lack of money continues to poison my peace of mind. I am £1000 over-drawn, in addition to the bank loan of £4500, and Susan lending me £3500. I do not think she will quickly ask for it back, but I worry that I can stay solvent. It does not help that the Ravine Road house sale would solve all my difficulties, while Lalla, in her innocence, thinks me ‘extravagant'. Of course I am in relation to my resources, but by absolute standards, I am frugal. However, absolute standards won't impress the bank manager. A nasty cold wet spring, so far.

Sunday April 30 1978

I am thankful that my firm stand against Jeremy Young, and ringing my agent to arrange that I should be left alone, has helped me to protect my performance. I think the rest of the cast now wishes they'd joined me.

The house needs cleaning - I seem to be so tired all the time, with the big part and the travelling. Mowed the lawn and felt sad.

Thursday May 4 1978

Julian came to see the play last night. Was mild and timid about it as usual, useless as a guide. Is to be the representative of the Mitford family and protect their interests in a series of prgs. made out of 'Pursuit of Love' and 'Love in a C. C.'

Had been reading E. Waugh lately during his illness. 'Some of his books are very slight'. He went on, wagging his head wisely, 'I would say that 'Pursuit of Love' is at least as good as most of E. Waugh - not Love in a C.C. of course, but some of the minor E. Waughs.'

Oh dear. That's why we've had to cut him out of our intimate lives. It's not just the lack of judgement - it's the smugness. He was looking a bit better, and ate a good meal - two helpings of a beef casserole I'd made yesterday morning, and left in the electric slow casserole

Sunday May 7 1978

'Tartuffe' finished last night. Lalla arrived to see it yesterday morning. Donald and Anne drove her down to Leatherhead, and they all saw it with Neil D. and two friends, who drove me home, where they all had a buffet supper laboriously brought together by me. (So Donald again ate my food and drank my drink, and has still never bought me a drink.)

Neil and Anne talked together a lot, too much. When Anne left she said, 'You must come to dinner soon.' I said I would. She said, 'And when you do, bring Neil.'

Hm.

Never saw Jeremy Young again. Lovely.

Beautiful weather at last today. Lalla and I sat out in the garden all the afternoon, smelling the wallflowers, but oh dear, I did long to be alone and relax.

Monday May 8 1978

Yesterday, when Lalla was having breakfast in my bedroom, she said, talking of the reaction after Mummy died, and her life's work was over, 'I didn't realise how much I'd given'.

Said quite artlessly, it was the only expression of fifty-two years of selflessness.

Wednesday May 16 1978

Went to see Oshima's Al ho Corida. Rather dull. How odd that one of the critics said that the couple was perverted.

I go to see the possible new accountant tomorrow. It's no use pretending I'm not nervous. What hell money is, when you haven't got any. Can it be such hell when you've got too much? I find it difficult to believe it.

I am still very tired. Thursday May 11 1978

Tony Cruse is his name and he was very attentive, and listened. I think he'll be better - anyway it's a change, and I can talk to him. And he used the word 'rapport'.

Soon I must write about D. or I shall forget the words she used, 'Poot rat', and 'poot bun rat', and so on. And when she was tired, getting into bed and saying 'ooojj'.

I realise that I have not recorded that Mummy died on Jan. 16, that just afterwards, I went up to Manchester to do a big play for June Howson at Granada, and also a Crown Court, that Lalla came to stay for ten days just before Tartuffe and wore me out.

And that during the Granada play, I made a wonderful new friend, Simon Callow.

And yet I feel such despair. Can't someone come and save me?

Saturday May 13 1978

What is the point of chronicling hours of despair?

I made a wholewheat loaf this afternoon. A little sad and salty, but eatable.

There is a blackbird's next in the camellia again.

Monday May 15 1978

To see the Bank manager, dear Tony Smith. Poor man, his nice wife has had a stroke, she seems to have recovered. She's 45, so let's hope it's that. He has been so kind and understanding, and for the moment I feel better about money than for years.

To see 'Heroes' with Henry Winkler, a film. What a lot of good men American films have got just now! And they are learning to be vulnerable. Anything might happen!

Wednesday May 17 1978

Last night to Donald and Ann's. She is a dear. How awful the Barbican is! The approach is along a glaring motorway with huge skyscrapers either side. Their flat looks out on big artificial parks but is still a nasty little box, nicely tho' she's done it up. Poor Donald, cooped up there with nothing to do. I must see her do something proper soon. She might be really good.

This afternoon went to the pictures with Julian. Poor J., thinks, as always, the clock can be turned back. He looked so dreadful, still ill of course, but also frightful clothes, a low-necked sweater, with no shirt, showing his old neck, and his teeth all awry. I mention these painful details because he has so often jeered at just such things in others, and still does. He paid for the seats, - I nearly died from shock. 'The Turning Point' poppycock but Barishaykov electric.

Sunday May 21 1978

Deloraine and Lionel Woodcock came to dinner on Thursday. She is Edna's god-daughter and daughter of Arthur and Mercy. A successful evening from their point of view, I suppose, as they stayed till quarter to one! She's a dear, a big, good woman, who is neither bossy nor priggish. He is - well, less simple, a bit devious, a bit of a time server. They brought their family album, which passed a pleasant half-hour - or rather, made it easier to keep the conversation going.

Sunbathed on Friday. But the weekend has been cloudy and dull. And I still need fires and hot- water bottles.

And I still cry.

Monday May 22 1978

Dull, but warmer. Prim to dinner. Quite herself, and then there is no one nicer.

Vichyssoise, beef casserole, new Jerseys, courgettes, cheese. Enjoyed every minute and mouthful. I think she did, too, as she has a production day at the RCM of Music tomorrow. I really believe she came here to relax. If so, I am much flattered.

Mrs. Cook told me house opposite sold for £36,000.

Tuesday May 23 1978

Sunbathed all afternoon. Went to a cocktail-party (fancy!) at 6.30, in Chelsea. Given by Cherry Snodin, whose house we used as a location during 'Budgie'. She has written a few times, and I listed my troubles in a light way. And she has returned to them, in a way I wish more people did! And when I left the party, which I did after 3/4 of an hour, she came to the door, and remembered all the troubles, and was really sympathetic. And in the middle of a cocktail-party, that's good.

The garden looks very pretty - I sat near the well-flowers and lilies of the valley.

Wednesday May 24 1978

Angela and Tim Hardy to dinner. She beautifully pregnant, baby due on June 25. He, out of work a year, but still vital and pouring out curiosity. But soon he must stop and look about him calmly. She is so calm now. And keeping her head about the baby, but oh how much more sobered by it than he. But they are together, and that is lovely to see.

Soon he must grow up more, or it will be wrong.

Played them Ruth Draper. They seemed to like it.

Thursday May 25 1978

Very warm. Sunbathed all day. To 'Elocution of Benjamin Franklin' with Joyce and a friend of hers. Slight, but enjoyable. Bianchi's. Friend mixed.

Monday May 29 1978

On Saturday - still very sunny and warm - to the Soho-Poly to see dear Simon Callow in his play. Met him in the street outside - I think lucky chance is going to hang over our friendship. About eight in the audience. The theatre and bar are very grubby and untidy. The first short play about Kafka's Felice, was frightful and very badly acted. The second play was pretty terrible, a possible idea, very poorly written, but Simon carried it through - ju-u-ust, by main force and gusto. We ate afterwards - I feel the rest of my life, if I live to be 90, won't be long enough for us both to say all we have to exchange. What a joy.

On Sunday dear Neil came and took me over to lunch at Corney Road. Lynda, looking golden and beautiful figure - pretty figured cotton dress, fitted and with cap sleeves, cooked a rather nasty lunch - she will not start soon enough, everything was underdone, and the veal was terribly tough, but never mind, it was a meal served with love, and sympathy, and we sat out in the garden after. Nice Tony? who came to the last night of 'Tartuffe' is very nice. A big heavy young man, looks about 35, is 21! Mild, gentle, firm, good-mannered, tolerant.

Today Bank Holiday. Pop Concert for Blacks on the band-stand on the Common. Noise so bad I could hear the words in the house with the windows closed. Very hot, so went to the pictures. On my way home about 7.30, a negro was peeing in the angle of the garage and the house at the corner, in daylight! Roses and lilac all out. Fierce sun all day. Put on my summer pyjamas for the first time this year.

Tuesday May 30 1978

John N., Joyce and David Martin came to dinner. John just back from India that morning. Very brown, and a bit tired, but seemed to have enjoyed himself. I tried to listen to his travellers' tales, - fortunately Joyce questioned him closely. But I find it almost impossible to be interested. Only pleased that he enjoyed it. Was flattered they all came, on such a night. Very warm, we had the garden door open all through dinner.

Long hot days, when I sunbathe, and wonder what I can do with my life. I must find something to do to help others as D. did.

(Joyce did not nag David for once - it did make a pleasant change.)

Wednesday May 31 1978

Dinner with Prim. Salad Niscoise, real, cheese, lovely wine, Chateau La Tour! Prim so good and kind, why not always? Well, she's had a hard life.

Thursday June 1 1978

Another lazy day, sunbathing. Oh dear. In the evening to 'Half-Life with Simon Callow.

A pathetic thin little affair, like a bad play of twenty-five years ago, written by a disappointed homosexual. The only redeeming feature, and it's a big one, was John. Quite superb. I wish I could analyse the variety and control that allowed him to keep one riveted. He never seems to go slower or faster, quieter or louder, all is concealed, yet all is revealed.

After, we went round, also, Phyllis Calvert looking very ravaged, as she is still dying her hair, silly woman, at 65. John was very kind to me and made me feel a friend. 'Have you kept the house on? Are you all right? I'm always seeing you on the box. No, I was very uncertain for the first fortnight at the Cotteslow, with the open stage, very nerve-wracking. I still think it needs ten minutes nipped out of it, I made him build up the other characters after I read the first script. Even so they're still feeds - the young people are a problem.' The country house is obviously desperately expensive, tho' he tries to pretend he likes it - 56 miles home every night.

Monday June 12 1978

Last week seemed - nay, was, very busy. All the same, yesterday I felt more tranquil than I have yet felt. It was very hot. I got up, and lay down in the garden at 10.30, and stayed there till 5.30. Had my dinner, wrote my letters and read, all without that terrible restlessness. Good.

A week ago saw a Romanian film. A bit political but the acting excellent. A young man, Gabriel Osecuic, was excellent, looked like a blond, handsome Peter Egan. He had those same hollows in his cheeks either side of the nose. Even his voice was similar, perhaps because of those hollows.

On Tuesday I took Henry Read out to dinner. He has been very ill, under the same consultant as D. saw. He is very pale, his hair, to his shoulders is white, he wears a spinal collar, walks very badly with a stick. We went to a bistro nearby, which was expensive and quite horrid. His choice. He had always been selfish, and I'm afraid is worse. Apart from a few flashes of wit and intelligence, a very few, he talked for 95% of the time about his illnesses and difficulties. He barely remembered to say anything of D. and never asked anything about me. Oh dear, still he's very lonely and doesn't eat much, so it was a good deed done. He said he and D. were known as the Heavenly Twins at the University. On Thursday John N. and I went to see 'Ten Times Table' the new Alan Ayckbourn. Paul Eddington was off, which I was rather pleased by, as I find his bland rather complacent acting trying. Whole thing very very funny, and mostly well acted, though Julia Mackenzie is too glossy and glib, and John Salthouse, as I expected, is much less good when he has more than one sentence to say. The old lady, played beautifully by Matyelok Gibbs, without strain or caricature, with such well-wishing goodness, was my favourite and the core of the play. The last scene was rushed and ineffectual, and left me cheated because it did not resolve the issues raised in the play. I think authors shouldn't direct their own plays. To Bianchi's after. I am getting really relaxed in John's company by now. He is surprising.

Friday was 'prepare for Lalla and Edith' day. I scrubbed the kitchen-floor, swept the front and did the brasses, did the stairs down. Dusted and hoovered the bedroom, dining-room and drawing room, dusted the book-room, and did a lot of shopping and cooking. Phew. Lalla and Edith Walker came up because Friday was a free travel day for old-age pensioners on the railway. She announced 'Edith's always wanted to see your house, we'll come to lunch'. 'Oh', I said, recovering well, 'Can Edith eat an omelette?' 'Oh' said Lalla, 'she'll want something more substantial than that'. With no edge either way, in her voice. They came, like a couple of schoolgirls, and it was a great success. I had the new curtain material for them, and just as I predicted, Lalla said, 'Oh, it's not as blue as I remembered'. 'That's the wrong side', I said. They had chicken casserole and strawberries. In the afternoon we had to go a walk to show Edith Mummy and Daddy's old house in Sudbrooke Rd., and Wandsworth Common. About six I walked them to Clapham Junction, carrying the curtain-material for them. I forgot to say that on Thursday morning I had a commercial interview at which I met Mike Robbins - having seen him for years, asked me to dinner. So it was with amazement at the coincidence, that, on my way back home I was called to a car in a side-street, by Doreen Aris, the leading lady at Birmingham Rep., where I worked with Mike Robbins, whom I haven't seen since 1956. She is much changed, no make-up, dry hair, poor teeth, very different from Robert Kemp's notice in Le Monde 'Cette Cleopatra, ravissante, adorable,’ etc etc. She is now teaching English in a comprehensive in Sydenham, poor girl. She asked after D. She didn't know.

In the evening dear Jeremy came. Ah, what a sad story. Mikel was packing up the flat in Scotland, got beside herself, said 'I want you', he went up for ten days and all was apparently made up. She went off to the States, with the boys for a visit, she said. He has a house here now, and got it ready and wrote. She wrote once. He wrote every day, four months went by. He borrowed £300 from his sister, and went over there. Mikel saw him between the shows of a Folger Library 'Hamlet' she was doing, and brought Hamlet along to sit in the next booth. That finally turned his brain again - he'd also stopped taking his pills - and he called them all to his hotel and heard himself saying to them that he was Jesus. The British Consul was called, and oh, good man, took him back to dinner with his wife and children, and didn't run screaming 'unclean unclean' like the hysterical Americans. He was flown home under escort. Happily the Rose Bruford heard nothing of it. He has two students in the house now.

I watched last night the three teenage sons of, I suppose, the caretaker of the school behind the house playing football, 'kicking a ball about' with their toddler sister, about five. They must be 13, 15 and 17, I suppose, and wanted, and every now and then had, a good knock about game. But it was pleasant to see them stop and let the little thing pick up the ball, and fall over trying to kick it, or one of them would turn his clumsy strength to gentleness for a moment, and let her tackle him. In the end, they went in, one carrying her scooter and one carrying her. It must be good, at that crude and selfish, sometimes cruel age, to have a little girl that you have to take care of.

Wednesday June 14 1978

On the Monday evening I last wrote, I went to Michael Robbins and his wife, for dinner. He is a dear, coarse in manner, which is his stock-in-trade as an actor, but not coarse as an artist as his perf. in 'Time and Time Again' showed. His wife Shirley, who rather absurdly calls herself Hal as an actress, has calmed down a lot since the last time I saw her - poor love. I expect thro' abandoning ambition. She looks much prettier because more relaxed, except for her hair, which is in an Eton crop and dyed dark red, always a most difficult colour and especially so in your forties. Their daughter, Sarah, 16, with big eyes, lovely velvety skin, wide smile, good figure, is a most attractive girl, and with attractive manners. She hardly spoke, but smiled and blushed and had cooked the dinner, smoked salmon quiche, coleslaw, melon to start, and strawberry fool or cherry tart to follow. (How curious people are not to have the lovely vegetables of the moment. Jersey pots, broad beans and so on.) Sweet evening. Left at 11.0. Michael ate very small portions. Not natural for a stockily built man. I felt as if some disaster was hanging over them, but I expect that's because so many have fallen on me, I see them everywhere.

Last night Eric Thompson and Phyllida Law came to dinner. She is a dear, bouncy warm pro, by no means lacking in brains or discernment, despite her manner being at times a bit forced from shyness. He is a quiet small man, of whom I would be prepared to make a great friend if he would let me. He has judgement and taste, and they chime, I think, with mine. Speaking of Ayckbourn, he said "He's no director. He allows gags. In 'Confusions' the scoutmaster came on with shorts below his knees and stood there as if saying 'I'm funny, laugh at me'. No scout- master would be allowed shorts of that length by the regulations, and anyway it's so stale and obvious. Also he doesn't understand silence.

We didn't talk about half I wanted to because we had so much to say. They wouldn't have any coffee! First guests ever to refuse!

Friday July 14 1978

I went to see the Royal Ballet School, and saw three ballets done by the students, at the Wimbledon theatre. Enchanting. 'Las Sylphides' poorish, tho' fairly well danced technically. But dances based on English, Scots and Ragtime dances, was electric, and 'Kaleidoscope' a ballet based on games, for the younger ones, showed little sign of its being the choreographer's first attempt. I congratulated him afterwards, just after Markora had done so. He's a shy child of 18. I shall be most interested to see his work in future.

Thursday July 20 1978

The long pause before the last entry was the result of a great apathy, itself perhaps the result of being out of work, combined with the tiredness that comes from relaxing. (I am also still terribly worried about money, and my dear Bank Manager is leaving, which doesn't help, but I will write no more of that.) What I must try and write more of, is the plays I see.

So, on June 15, I went to the Phoenix, with Neil and Lynda, to see 'The Unvarnished Truth', a farce by the author of 'Crown Matrimonial.' (What a strange mixture of plays he's written - being his second, a serious play about a queer 'marriage' - one of the best on this dangerous subject - dangerous to good playwriting, I mean.) I laughed a great deal at this very broad farce, and what more can one say? It had the strength of its own absurdity, and was full of high spirits and fun. Supper at Bianchi's after. They paid for the seats, and I paid for supper.

On June 20, I went to see 'Flying Blind' by Bill Morrison, its first night at the Royal Court, on account of Simon Callow. He was first given a ticket in the back row, but got it changed by telling them I was deaf, 'so don't be surprised if they shout at you.' The play was a comedy set in a suburb of Belfast. It included quite broadly farcical passages and incidents of great brutality, and brought off, more or less, their combination. I used the word 'lazy' in the interval, and so did the Times notice, not altogether without reason.

Simon was good, but in the long speech in the second act, he was uncertain whether to address it to the girl with him, or to the audience, and so did both and neither. He has not yet seen that it must be to the audience but seem to be the other actor. Afterwards there was a little party in the bar, with a lot of warring impressions, and I, hoping all the time to have a quiet meal with Simon et. al. to talk about the play, finished up in the pub, talking first to rather nasty Adrian Noble from Bristol and then some extraordinary creature whom Simon knew - and left me with - who had been at Cambridge with me, and recalled 'Bang Goes the Meringue' and other tiresome and painful things. And eventually I got myself home to a lonely and indigestible meal - as it was so late - and was desolate. I do not at all mean that I blame S. for all that, - I blame myself for not insulating the evening more carefully in my own interest!

On Wednesday, June 21, John N. and Joyce asked me to Joyce's for dinner to meet his parents. As usual, with friends' parents, neither of them appeared as extreme, he not so bad, she not so good. After all, who knows what they did to each other before either John or Joyce remember? I think Mrs. Nickson is perhaps determinedly trivial, which would account for John's slight fixation on her. And Mr. N. is a real reader, which perhaps account for part of his oddity in his family circle. Certainly I was amazed that Joyce said afterwards what a discerning remark I made, when I said, in answer to Joyce saying 'Of course, he has no friends', 'Ah, but has he ever had the right company?' It was a successful evening, but I must see them again, and more than once, to say anything useful.

The next night, Donald and Anne came, most successfully, to dinner. Played Ruth Draper and so on. But have heard nothing from them since, which is interesting. The next day I went off to Chichester to stay with John Warner, Prim going with me. I cannot say that I enjoyed my weekend, except for the plays. It is no use pretending that I have ever enjoyed staying away from home. Prim is trying on such an occasion - I now see why she likes weekends. She never stops, and can distract herself every moment. Bad.

The Marivaux 'Inconstant Couple' was translated into a 'Restoration play. As a result, the whole affair was much coarsened, but Morag Hood was fleetingly good, and Tim Woodward made a brave stab at a fop - a long way from himself, apparently - but Simon P. was too old, not to look at, but you cannot play a 'flighty' part at forty, without suggesting something worrying.

'A Woman of No Importance' on the other hand, pulled out of Sian Phillips a really big performance, taken right down, but filled to the brim with deep emotion. I have never before seen her justify her reputation. Tim Woodward, as Gerald, is possibly very good - has a fund of emotion there somewhere - I should like to see his Romeo. John W. is excellent in both plays, but nobody but a pro. would see it. He is a dear, and attempts to be a good host, but it didn't stop him sending Prim and I, after the evening show, to a wine-bar where there was nothing to eat, and no one under 25, ,in the rain! On the Saturday night I took Prim out to dinner at the Little London Rest., where she had the unpriced menu, and chose the most expensive thing on it, sole with mussels. Still, it was good to get one really good meal. Went back on Sunday afternoon exhausted. And people want me to go abroad too.

On Tuesday, June 27, the men came to do the carpet, two very glamorous young men, rather cross, and even crosser when there wasn't enough carpet to do the stairs. They also put hideous chromium strips at all the edges, and two of the doors won't close. Otherwise it was a perfect job. I think perhaps it was this, and the following two days in B'mouth that plunged me into a profound apathy, such as I haven't felt since it happened. On the Friday Lalla and I went to tea with Edna in her flatlet - a great success - Lalla looked in all the cupboards and was very pleased with their tidiness, and she and Edna both took much joy in the good planning and delightful view - 'Oh, this is much nicer that Joy's.' On the Saturday, July 1, I took Prim to the first house of 'Waters of the Moon', which closed that day. Ingrid B. had asked me to go. She was excellent, going right through the centre of the play with such drive that Prim and I agreed in the interval that she seemed to be playing absolutely freshly and as if there were no thought of a second house. Her first words when I went round, were 'I'm so tired - I cannot believe I have to do it again'. Her first words about the show, I mean - her first words were the sweetest dearest welcome and sympathy to me. After I took Prim to dinner at Bianchi's, a dinner out again - bother! On Tuesday, July4, Joyce and I had dinner and went to the pictures, alone, an epoch- making moment. I enjoyed every moment, tho' the film was by no means the daring affair the young audience seemed to think it. Alain Resnais is certainly one of those who turn to 'avant- garde' extremities because they lack real talent. John G. was very funny, and a great help to the film. (Any days left out were passed in a debauchery of apathy.)

The next night, July 5, I dined with Deloraine, Mercy's daughter, and, much more important, Mercy herself, and Arthur. The evening was fairly disastrous, as there were two frightfully literal boring people there, who, of course, Deloraine should not have invited just because 'they were up in London in their Dormobile', but, of course, she is a crude girl tho' good, and had, I suppose, no keen sense of the importance to Edna of Mercy and me meeting, let alone to us. We were immediate friends, and I made her deafness and blindness an excuse to turn away from the others. Deloraine announced brightly that she's never done the first course before, an avocado mousse which she'd put in the ice-cream maker, so that it was like a crystal rock, and of course, rather disgustingly tasteless. The next day I went to see the new Michael Frayn play that Eric T. directed. (He was cutting it while we were at Bristol - not enough.) Very poor; it's not coming in, and I'm not surprised - it need not just tinkering but basic re-writing with two or three new ideas. Poorly acted, Sheila Steafel vulgar. I thought so. Simon had booked, - and made it a thoroughly enjoyable day. I think I take as much pleasure in his company both actively and negatively, as in any young man I've ever known - we went to the big book-shop, and on the train back, sat at the same table as a sour-faced woman and her husband. We talked so animatedly, as I expect we always shall, and oh how that woman hated us!

On Friday, July 7, John N had asked me to go to dinner with some friends of his called Hickson. Or rather they'd asked me, so I went. They get at each other in public, and she is very silly and adolescent sometimes - at 5?! - but that’s about the worse of it. When she talks about her son, she becomes calm and wise. I think I'd better have them back without John N. - the silly adolescent show-off side of him finds an echo in her.

Friday September 22 1978

To William, for lunch. And then we walked out to the Henry Moore exhibition, the big bronzes warm in the sun, with god's wee-wee in pretty strijoes of verdigris round the base, and the Serpentine Gallery Exhibition cool streaked marbles. William is becoming a real person.

Friday January 26 1979

Dorothy's 66th birthday. Dear little one.

Sunday January 28 1979

I walked round the pond tonight at about eleven, starting to freeze. Perhaps I'm coming out of my apathy.

Sunday February 11 1979

Still very cold. Dear Mrs. Myall was taken away by her son and daughter-in-law, her chair and her clothes. She walked very uncertainly, and I felt I mightn't see her again. How she will hate going there.

Saturday February 17 1979

Our twenty-first wedding anniversary.

Tuesday March 6 1979

Asked Sian Phillips and Robin Sachs to dinner, to meet Angela Down and Tim Hardy. Sian and Robin never turned up. No use to pretend I wasn't depressed.

Monday March 12 1979

On Saturday I heard Iris Murdoch being interviewed on television. I hope the article is published. However, I shall carry away, first, her saying that she has always been interested in the conflict between creation and goodness. Can you be an artist and a saint? That interests me, too, - it has always worried me that genius, genuine creativity, often seems to exact the price of the rest of the person being perhaps negligible or ever despicable. (Edith, one gathers. John is, after all, by no means a saint, though at times the high nobility of his art does ring through his talk.) She also carefully distinguished between fantasy and imagination.

I must try and spend more time with people of my own education and intelligence.

Thursday March 15 1979

To the Moving Picture Mime Show at Jackson's Lane Community Centre in Highgate, a few hundred yards from Talbot Rd.

Three young men with such vitality and fun and tenderness and good timing, that John N. and I laughed and were moved, and were satisfied by the evening, a rare experience. There is someone behind it, (or all of them!) with balance. Saturday April 7 1979

Two years today since my darling died.

John and Joyce came to dinner, and I looked at her letters for the first time, and read bits out and they laughed.

And so did I.

Tuesday May 8 1979

I was asked, and accepted to play George in Stoppard's 'Jumpers' at the Northcott, Exeter. £150 a week! My run of ill-luck came to an end with a children's TV play by E. Nesbit, which I recorded on Sunday, and came here yesterday. The day after I finish here, on June 9, I start a TV for Terry Dudley, so I am in work till June 21. The Nesbit was full of nice people, from the stars, Peter Jones and Patricia Hayes, to the smallest part. Perhaps the director, who is mild and dim and slow, has an eye for niceness, in case nastier people find him out. I loved Tricia George, big, fine-face, looking clumsy in modern clothes, but beautiful in Edwardian dress. Funny, even camp, but can come off it, and be serious without affectation - like me! Simon Shepherd, striking-looking, almost pretty, and has played Lord Alfred Douglas and Raleigh, and is at present playing a young queer in a queer play, and yet isn't it at all, lives with his girl and is sunny and humorous, and makes me feel I want to protect him from the obvious disappointments that lie ahead of pretty men, especially if they're normal. And then Michelle Nowell, small, dark, paper thin, vivid, reads, I long to talk to her more, there is something there. Oh dear, almost everyone is so interesting.

Wednesday May 9 1979

The first thing to describe is Crispin Thomas, the assistant director, who's doing 'Jumpers'. Tall, 6 foot 1, slim but wiry with vivid black hair, every hair seeming to be separate with a life of his own, he is funny, vital to an unusual degree, leaps everywhere, has not yet given me an unnecessary note or uttered an unnecessary word, warm, can leave well alone, is full of praise and laughter at the right moments - can this be the ideal director? His only drawback may be that he gets bored with us all later on, like Richard. And, as well, a most attractive and delightful companion.

Michael Tudor Barnes, playing Bones, has an excellent face, sad, funny, mocking and mournful, and a really beautiful voice, which he can also use to great comic effect. Belinda Lang, who plays Dottie, is, I would guess, gifted, like her mother, Joan Heal, but also like her mother, tho' for slightly different artistic reasons, cannot give them full expression. She is insecure, and keeps taking offence, not with me, but with Crispin. Of course, she shares a house with him and may be in love with him. I wouldn't like to be that, for all his charm. She is not very supple in her command of inflection, - she cannot keep the different tone for a subordinate clause, going clearly enough to keep the shape of the sentence in the audience's mind.

The six jumpers are learning their acrobatics and jumping, on my way back from the loo, I watched thro' a window - we are rehearsing in a church hall with many mansions - the six boys, (at least three of them are in their first job), were slogging away at a dance with top hats and canes, - and I thought how wonderful actors are. With no one watching except the choreographer, they were putting everything into being as good as possible.

Crispin T. described so vividly one of the boys as being ‘just down from Oxford in his first job’, and here he is as a jumper. I remember how I felt, after being President of the A.D.C. and all my friends came to Colchester to see me as a Munchkin."

Saturday May 12 1979

Still, Crispin T. is proving marvellous. At this rate, I really think I might get through, and almost feel secure.

Goodness, I notice how much better I feel compared with Bristol.

Tuesday May 15 1979

Nothing else to be recorded but the above. If only I can be fluent, - even get through the last speech.

Wednesday May 16 1979

Still a week to go. Oh how grateful I am to have Crispin. He is heavenly.

First run-through tomorrow. Oh, oh, and all those boys watching and thinking how much better they could do.

Thursday May 17 1979

Two run-throughs. Am whirling with exhaustion. First one as flat as a pancake, second better, but? Am I going to be good?

Friday May 18 1979

Heavenly day. Run-thro' in the theatre, and it came alive, not all through, not continuously but alive, and I felt it in a way I hadn't before. Oh, Crispin.

Equally heavenly letter from Simon; he's got Orlando at the National 'Amadeus' following. Well, splendid, I suppose. Unfortunately I must record sneaking misgivings about both. Orlando because I can't think him right for it, being stocky and square, about 5 foot 8? and not a juvenile. And the Amadeus because I am so chary of plays about geniuses. Of course he is an abundantly talented actor, and will bring them off in one way, but it would be so awful if he became a sub-star, not associated with success, and retreated back into his little highbrow world.

Sunday May 20 1979

Last night to the last night of 'Beggar's Opera' never seen it before. Oh, dear, it is dull. And how I hated the prologue taking place in the foyer, with the audience forced to watch, but being kept out of the theatre. Crispin very vital and every now and then v. good, but I don't think he's really an actor, though he looks marvellous when he stands still - his legs are rickety when he moves - and sings pretty well considering.

What poor parts most of them are! Why has it ever been such a success? It doesn't work the audience. I thought it pallid and rather feeble.

Monday May 21 1979

Two run-thros. 1st was rather rotten, fluffing and drying all over the place. But 2nd, better. But still insecure. I feel wonky.

Friday May 25 1979

I have won through. A full house last night cheered me! I was as smooth as could be, almost to my own amazement. It is still startling what a difference an audience makes. Apart from anything else, the laughter gives you time. Michael Tudor Barnes, who was so good in rehearsal, did not rise to the audience, and was just the same. I should say he was a bit disappointed that he did not get the laughs he was expecting. He gets a lot of laughs in rehearsal, but alas! actors' laughs.

I was really good, but oh the joy of being able to polish.

Before I finish here, I must write six little character sketches of the six young beginners who play the Jumpers. In alphabetical order, Anthony Best is small, trusting, credulous, with a rather formless face that will look better in middle age, a sweet smile and rather a good unexpectedly warm voice - faintly gingery hair. Started out last year or the year before, at Worthing as an ASM without drama-school training or an Equity card.

I watched tonight a TV prog. about nudism. One of its apologists finally said, 'If only the local authorities would grasp the problem by the horns.....

Sunday May 27 1979

How seldom I see anyone in a hotel (or other public place) like D. or me, sitting observing and commenting to each other. Not that I hope we ever did it obviously. I fear I almost never overhear a cultivated conversation even in a comparatively expensive hotel.

A party next to me in the dining-room, has been talking for some fifteen minutes, and are still at it, of an unsuccessful venture in the country. 'Oh, down the end of an unmade-up lane, a cottage, very remote, only a cold-water tap, and the chap who owned it, reckoned to let it and make his money on the cherry orchard, and the cherry orchard did make a profit. The one big room upstairs only big enough for a bed (ha, ha!) ... the cherry orchard... the cherry orchard... the cherry orchard ... and they still haven't mentioned Tchekov.

Friday June 1 1979

No play tonight, because there are two Albee plays on instead. Silly. Two young men near me in the bar are talking about some course or project, in which theatre is, I think, sometimes mentioned. Oh dear, I don't suppose they've been near the Northcott. The new amateurs.

Sunday June 3 1979

Two shows yesterday. I don't suppose I've ever done two shows of such a heavy part. I did notice my concentration slipping in the middle of the second house, but the full house and Joyce and David M. being there, spurred me on over the last lap. The first house was ridiculously small, considering the others have been more or less sold out, another indictment of the position of this theatre. The five o'clock is a great doors show. The people who did come were sweet and quick, about eighty of them, scattered about.

Portraits of the other members of the cast, in alphabetical order. Chris Baines, been on stage about eighteen months. Good-looking, big, clear eyes, well-cut nostrils, dark, v.good casting for a 1830-40s young man, (Delecroix, Gericaault) mild, gentle, intelligent, secure in himself. (His girl-friend, Leda Hodgson, does the strip-tease and plays my secretary. She is also gentle and ready to laugh and consider things.) Whether either of them can really act, of course I don't know.

Mark Baratt, the ex-Oxford and Lamda graduate (imagine wasting time going to drama school after Oxford) is very tall, too tall, fair and pleasant-looking, but with a rather small head. He is mild to talk to, but I imagine if you twisted his arm, you would still find under graduate superiority.

ANGUS MACKEY DIARY NO. 43

June 8 1979 - April 10 1982

Friday June 8 1979

Mark Barratt continued. I do not, of course mean anything nasty by that - only for instance, to describe myself at the same age. Gradually and painfully he will learn that he can't play my part better than me, as he doubtless thinks at the moment. But he will have to be very gifted to get over the disadvantages of height and small head. Anthony Best looks very young and is the least good-looking of the Jumpers. But is smiling and pink-faced and credulous, and reminds me of John Warner. He is a little round in figure, not plump, but short in leg and body. Boyish- looking. May have more talent later, when he may grow into his 'proper' age. Very willing.

Brian Parr is likely to be the most successful of the six. Also short, but well-proportioned, and a very good 'natural' mover, more than that, he is a complete thing, with a rather fascinating mobile sad-funny face, big mouth, bright blue eyes. In a white make-up and a spot for Beckett's 'Imagination Dead Imagine' he was a really memorable Pierrot face. Strained his back in the dance and missed the first night!! But was fit enough to drive home!!! How times have changed. He already shows faint signs that he may become spoiled.

Andrew Sargent is also a beginner, 'The Beggar's Opera’ being his debut as it was Mark B's. He is short and stocky, but not necessarily too much so, good-looking with an oval face and again good blue eyes, always so effective from the front. A good voice, I'd say, but of course I've only heart it in conversation. He himself is pleasant and cultivated, but his wife, who greeted me with 'Hullo, I didn't like the play', is dowdy and plain, and already a little bit of a stage wife. Let's hope she's more under his thumb than the other way round, or she will hold him back. Or he'll get rid of her if he gets on. There is still a bit of priggishness about him. The pi-ness of one who has not really had his principles tested.

Gary Sharkey is the pro-iest, although also a beginner. When the other boys had to be encouraged to put on chorus-boys' makeups, Gary had to be restrained from putting sequins on his eyelids.

Tall, with a big nose and rather a receding chin, he is not specially 'camp' but is not very easy to cast, and has, I should say, not much literary intelligence, or knowledge generally. A rather unhappy professional life may lie ahead, but he has a happy temperament. Also a warm generous one. He was the first to buy me a drink, and to press my hand in my first night terror.

Tuesday June 19 1979

Now in Manchester. We stopped in Stoke on Trent, by a poster saying the Potteries best hotel, come to Clayhanger Bar. How A.B. would have enjoyed it. The hotel is at least six pounds more a night, tho' that is partly because the BBC does not give such a large concession as Granada!

Tonight, in the coffee bar, two negroes, clearly part of a pop group, sat at the next table. Both had beer, one had pea soup - it was a very hot night. A youngish white man in tee-shirt and jeans, joined them and proceeded to go thro' a loose-leaf book saying 'Then there's that bottle of scotch you bought, do you remember, when the bus stopped at that garage outside Berlin?' And so on, thro' about four places, getting smallish sums out of them both as he went along. He certainly earned his money, as the negroes were the usual muddle-headed children. By the usual sort of coincidence that seems to echo in my life, the man in front of me in the taxi-queue at the station, had a heavy box to deliver at the Apollo for a reggae concert'. He had a badge on his lumber-jacket which seemed permanent tho' written, a back-stage pass. I wish the straight theatre still needed that protection, as in the past!

Monday August 6 1979

Dear old Bunny Danvers Heron, the old lady I visit for the Actors Benevolent Fund, said today that she felt she was going to die, - will I see another Christmas?' And she's like me about illness, so perhaps it's interesting. Certainly she is less well than she was, with violent constipation and nausea. Tho' very bright after I'd been there a bit. She told me she'd said to her rather humourless grandson, who's an under-management at a Macdonald's Hamburger restaurant, and is having an affair with the woman manager, 'How does she like the shade of the ceiling?' 'I thought I'd try that on him, dear', she said, 'he went to my son, and said he thought Granny was going funny.'

Tuesday September 11 1979

Les Thornley's dreary son, Simon, rang up yesterday to ask to stay the night on his way to Spain, 'Me and Jill and her brother, he'll sleep on the floor in our sleeping bags.' All right. Cheap.

They arrived at 3.0ish. I went out. They went out and ate. And tonight they have gone to 'Manhattan', Woody Allen's very good film. (Though I doubt if they will think so.) I now list the food they bought for their rail-journey across France to Spain:-

3 long Italian loaves. 1 litre carton Unigate orange juice. 400 gm. packet McVities digestive biscuits 5 apples Mattersons Sliced Liver Sausage (4oz packet) 3 packets potato crisps St Ivel Gold Spinner cheese spread Philadelphia Full Fat Soft Cheese. 3 oz.

Later.

Although I told them what time the film was, they dribblingly never got to it, and did what?

Thursday September 13 1979

Edna's birthday.

I have to let a room, because I have to make some money. So I rang RADA on Monday, - almost immediately, like a jack-in-the-box, came a Mark Hadfield and his father. M.H., fair flat- faced, a lisp, neat clean, a bit careful - well, his father was with him - seemed quite simpatico. However, they decided against. But, as it turns out, I was glad. Today I rang RADA again. Along, again in a flash, came Kenneth Darragh?, again fair, sensible, polite, mild, gentle, wild about the theatre, decided to be an actor at 15. Is now 18. A little shorter than me, not too broad, not too narrow. Good proportions. Funny and open. Well, he arrived at 12.15 and left at 4.30 having stayed to lunch. Wants to play 'Hamlet', R II etc. He is all the things I said, without being at all dull. Gave him some old Theatre Worlds.

Well, I suppose the die is cast. Oh dear. What hell money is. This afternoon to see 'Old Boyfriends' at the Canada Plaza Cinema. Very pleasant place, as the audience is all cultivated. Rather thin little film. Heroine with little chopped-off nose.

The ITV strike is frightening.

Kenneth D. is manly, reliable in type. Well, we'll see.

The McIvers asked me to lunch on Sunday.

Saturday September 15 1979

Jeanne Watts told me of a plumber in Broomwood Rd. I rang him on Monday. His wife said she thought he could fit my jobs in fairly soon. He came this morning at 9.15, put four new washers on (making the cold bath-tap stop dripping for the first time for 16 years) adjusted the loo, made the tap in the upstairs sink work again, and repaired a split in the bathroom basin waste-pipe, all this without any noise or questions or complaint, left at 10.20, - and charged £5.00. He is smallish, black hair, blue eyes, quiet, unassertive, like a countryman, 'do a bit of everything like', name David Gregory. Could be Italian or Greek blood. Cockney now. A find.

Sunday September 16 1979

Wrote and sent D's ivory necklace to Clare Forte, her physiotherapist, whom she loved, and, I think, C.F. lover her.

To lunch across the road with the McIvers.

Arrendo (beautifully ripe), rather tasteless chicken, (and chicken must have a thickened sauce, not brown water) and rather over-seasoned vegetables, a Chateau claret of some kind which wasn't worth what they seem to have paid for it, and meringues, which made by her, were a bit hard and gluey. But the whipped cream was in a huge bowl, and was nice.

There is something rather sad about them, not least in their determination to be sorry for me. 'I think of you sitting alone in that house etc. etc. I ate and drank too much, with the result that I felt sorry for myself the rest of the day.

Ed. Fox rang to arrange about Edna and the family reunion.

Monday September 17 1979

My young lodger rang to say could he drop some things in on Thursday. Gave me his parents' address and their post code. Hope he's not too efficient.

Went to visit Cyril Cunningham for the ABP. Very narrow, hardly likes anything and scarcely listens, so isn't easy to visit. I am trying to gain his confidence by agreeing whenever possible.

Tuesday September 18 1979 Wednesday September 19 1979

Joyce came to dinner last night, to take her mind off her sister, Diana's hysterectomy. It needed taking off - Diana had five pints of blood after a haemorrhage. But is all right today, Wed. Dear Joyce, she has that insight without which I can't live. Arreado, wild duck, baked custard.

Today went to see the accountant. Quite cheerful session. I earned £1000 more, and spent £1000 less. Good gracious. Tony Cruise drove me to the station. Told me about nice Mike Groan who actually does the slogging work. Has a son of 18 who's being a great bother, and he himself can't pass the accountancy exams, at any rate, not all together though he has separately.

Oh, I am enjoying Virginia Woolf's letters.

Thursday September 20 1979

A day of waiting and working. The electrician came to repair the lavatory light, from the London Electricity Board. Afterwards he got keen on the pictures, and stayed for half an hour. Then Kenneth Branagh arrived with pots and pans, and a box of programmes, and his make-up and a scrap-book. And sat down and we talked about the theatre, and he stayed to lunch, and we played Edith and John as Mirabell and Millament and Ruth Draper - 'Actress' - and talked and talked. And I must must must remember to let him blossom and put out fruit. He's only 18, and 'infinitely touching', well, he is unusually detached. His scrapbook has cuttings of him as Junior Book Critic at 13, of his local paper, really very well written little notices. I am now looking forward to him coming.

At a quarter to eight the European candidate called, and I had to go and vote. And Edna comes tomorrow.

Friday September 21 1979

Edna arrived. Had gripy pains in morning - so afraid I might be off, as with Lalla. So far not.

Edna is so rewarding and appreciative.

Dear Mr. Freeman, my greengrocer, offered to put up my 'No Hawkers, no circulars' sign, recessing it in the gate, so it would be less likely to be stolen.

Saturday September 22 1979

No, stomach upset hasn't as yet materialised, and as I had wild duck and ginger ice-cream last night, and pig's trotters and baked custard tonight, perhaps it won't.

Lovely post. 'Family Reunion' seats from Ed. F., Actors' Benevolent Fund report, and I was touched to tear by a card from Ken Branagh. On the outside it said 'To Say Thank You' in gold print. Inside he'd written.

For: Food (and Drink) Conversation Kindness Laughter Warmth - HOSPITALITY & Lots of fun.

I look forward to much more.

I call that exceptional from an eighteen-year-old. His parents must be nice. He certainly is.

Monday September 24 1979

So my Cardiff contract is over without being taken up. Well. Last night Prim and Mary came to dinner. Slightly disastrous at the beginning, as the car I'd ordered for them was an hour late. Dreadful, but they were so good about it and had a drink at Prim's, and so we only sat down at 8.30, only half an hour late, as far as the food was concerned, mushrooms and anchovies, roast shoulder, apple meringue, Good, nostalgic talk. Prim perfectly all right.

Today tiring. Up at 8.30. Edna's breakfast (dainty lace-edged tray, scrolled butter, toast-rack, etc.) my breakfast, shops, wash up dinner for four, do grate, as we had first coal-fire of the year, dust drawing-room, get lunch. Serve and eat lunch. Cold lamb, tomato and cucumber salad at 2.30. Car comes to go to picture-framers, R.A. for San Marco horse exhibit, Clemence in Burlington Arc. for Edna's nail-file. Fortnum for chocs., didn't get them. Back home. Dinner, cold lamb, bubble and squeak, runner beans, courgettes, ginger ice-cream.

To bed, tired at ten, for Brighton and Annette at 7.30 tomorrow. Oh dear. But how she loves it, as do I. The San Marco horse was perfect beauty.

Friday September 28 1979

Edna's visits get more and more exhausting. On Tuesday we went down to Brighton to see Annette Montgomery-Campbell. Lunch at the Eaton as usual, Annette in worse state than ever, legs very swollen, everything else thinner, lunch goodish, company dull. Got back home, cooked dinner. Wednesday, Bunny came to lunch, - which I'd gone out to buy in the morning, chump chop, beans etc., and baked custard, which I'd made the night before after Edna had gone to bed. Great success, Bunny is so good and tries so hard. A little rest, then the washing-up, and out with John N. to L'Etoile. He was so tired he went faint in the middle. Delicious meal, lovely restaurant. Cold trout in a ? sauce. Grouse, pink, melting, best I've ever had. Coffee mousse. Good claret. Joyce in amusing vein, not a crushed bundle as I expected, after her weekend in Manchester, looking after her nephews and nieces. She is a wonderful girl.

Yesterday we met Edna's god-daughter in Dickins and Jones Rose Restaurant, two courses, glass of wine each, martinis and gin and tonic, coff, £14.30. Well, the pianist was live. Then back home, rest and The Family Reunion. Theatre full; I think the production was improved by being a proscenium theatre. Ed produced a bottle of champagne, two dreary teenagers, children of a Dean in whose house he'd stayed when he was playing Iago at Norwich, came in and sat on the floor. I saw Griff James, who told me about Ingrid B's cancer during the last two months of 'The Constant Wife'! and Ed took us to the car. All the taxis had been punctual, except Edna's train taxi. However, we were at Waterloo twenty minutes before her train!

Sunday September 30 1979

Yesterday I spent getting Kenneth B's rooms ready. Now I see why all landlady's rooms are so full.

To party at Barringtons last night. She very 'up', as she starts a new season of 'Emu' taking her up to Christmas and the panto. It would depress me into the floor, but she seems to make the best of it. Also at the party was Henry Graveney, now the head designer at ATV. Years ago, he was designer at Salisbury, and was at the Blue Bird with D. She had always spoken affectionately of him, and as usual, he was pleasant and quick and well-wishing.

This morning much moved by watching the Pope arrive in Ireland. Mind you, it's the cheers and applause - I wonder if I'd have been moved without them. Kenneth rang to tell me when he would arrive. Another good mark.

He arrived at 3.30, and so far hasn't put a foot wrong. He is wise for his age, and all his instincts are marvellous. I long to hear him speak out, and act.

I can't believe it at the moment he seems perfect, a sense of humour, intelligent, calm, reasonable, with deeps.

I feel lucky, and calm myself. I thought I would feel strain, and I am only touched and interested.

Monday October 1 1979

Before he comes home with precious first impressions, a few things. Last night he telephoned his girl friend and his parents, and asked me where the piggy-bank was for the telephone money. His room is as neat as can be, bed made, pyjamas folded and so on. He thanked me for the flowers and all those coat-hangers. We had a lovely evening, playing records and laughing a lot. Talking of a friend who was in an amateur production of 'Relatively Speaking', and went to a student of the Drama Centre for advice on how to get out of bed with a sheet wrapped round one, he said, 'And the student asked 'What sort of night has he had?' and he laughed. And I could have kissed him. David G. would have been 'open-minded' about it and probably impressed. Then I said 'Are you nervous?' and he said, 'Oh yes, dreadful butterflies, but I'm so glad that I can talk to you, instead of sitting in digs alone, thinking I've come up too early.'

This morning he was, as he always seems to be, cheerful and smiling, but kept going off into glazed stares and holding onto the edge of the table, and could only eat one piece of toast. Nevertheless when he left the house, he turned, smiled and said 'Well, off into the great unknown'.

I think all that is good for eighteen.

He did his two audition speeches for me tonight after dinner. He can certainly act. Standing there in the back drawing-room, he turned into a picture, too, fair hair, good face - better than I'd thought. Good timing. Lots of possibilities in the voice.

We did a bit of work. I could have been so much better, I do go on so, and demand a response, and say it again, and oh dear. Still, I may not have been quite useless.

Tuesday October 2 1979

Really Kenneth is a pleasure to have about. He'd had a tiring day, (all that 'Movement') and they certainly keep them busy, which is good, even if some of it is a waste of time.) He described some of the other students as 'blowing out great gusts of ego'. I think he's going to show command of words as well. After dinner he said 'Why don't I wash up and you go and sit down and read? And said diffidently, not priggishly. He is a man, which is nice.

Wednesday October 3 1979

Shopping, and time to kill, so saw 'Scum', a film about Borstal, with Julian Firth! Silly little affair. Kenneth brought me some flowers home. He is so pleasant. To Ju's for dinner, smoked salmon, veal, home-made blackcurrant ice, all delicious. Amazing. He was very up and quite normal.!

Thursday October 4 1979

Tonight I asked a friend of Kenneth's, Colin Wakefield, to dinner. He is at the Webber-Douglas. Tall, small head, hope he's a good actor, otherwise... pleasant, cultivated, but not very quick or deep. Ken has made a friend of him because they are of an age, that is, K. is 18 and C is 30, but they are of an age. Kenneth will grow out of him quite quickly.

It is always instructive* to see someone you're getting to know, with a friend. Added to this, Ken and I were entertaining together, as it were. I was really staggered. He not only worked in with me perfectly, never trying to do too much, bringing out the tureens 'to stop Colin doing it', (having remembered that there isn't room in the kitchen for two), but instinctively entertained C while I got the meal. His manners are naturally perfect in instinct, and will be soon in fact, when he has seen a little more. I said it was instructive*, because you see yourself and your impact through the explanations they give to the friend.

I have seldom been so moved to find that he was showing me off to Colin, with terrific pride. 'Tell Colin that wonderful story, when' etc. all evening. He had remembered everything. He saw Colin off to the tube. I washed up. Dinner had been mushrooms and anchovies, chicken espagnola, and bananas in brandy, and cheese.

I opened the door, as he hadn't bothered to take his key. As he shut the door, he said, 'Perfect evening, everything - the food, and the talk. Thank you.' And thanked me twice more. He has actually appreciated and relished and weighed my getting an unknown friend of his a good dinner and a pleasant evening.

Friday October 5 1979

He went off to Reading today for the weekend. Before he went off this morning he left a note in a copy of 'Six Characters' that he wanted me to read, with a £5 note inside, and this letter.

'Enclosed is my contribution to this week's housekeeping.

Thank you for a lovely week and in particular for allowing me to invite Colin round and provide him with such a sumptuous feast and such entertaining conversation.

Glad to see our Modus viviendi (see; sophistication already) is working so well, and that we have already become (I hope) such great friends.

See you on Sunday night sometime.'

Now that seems to me a very good letter for an eighteen-year-old. And how thoughtful to give me the five pounds, just when I was thinking I ought to ask for it.

Oh God, get me a job.

Saturday October 6 1979

I didn't feel all that well this morning, but perhaps that's all because I have no work. I ate some muesli and bread and marmalade for lunch, because the marm. needs using up. Then I went and did Bunny's garden, cleared it up really well for a first stage. She helped me, putting the brambles and weeds on the rubbish-dump, bending and carrying for about an hour. So she isn't really too ill.

Sunday October 7 1979

Very warm. Mowed the lawn. Clipped the ivy. Did a bit of cleaning. Ken came back at 8, just as I was starting dinner. I was amazed. He must have left home at 6.

After dinner we worked on his 'Caretaker' bit, with ease. He is quick and responsive. Profile questing, straight, a bit like a male Tutin. I think we may really be friends. It's amazing.

Monday October 8 1979

Still very warm. A lazy empty wasted day. Having Ken here at least gives me a sense of doing something for the theatre, however indirect.

Dorothy Fontaine rang tonight to tell me Edna had had a fall, and had dislocated her shoulder, and bruised her hip. I rang the hospital, and it seems she's broken her femur. I can't believe it - that’s three things already, and now a fourth. I hope it will not be dangerous. I can imagine Edna just giving up - if she feels it is the appropriate moment to do so. In some ways I would like her to die. She would so hate to be bed-bound, and she could have many worse ends than to go now.

In contrast, Kenneth is so young and it is so lovely to have someone running up and down stairs. And the keen edge on everything. Not that Edna hasn't a keen edge, too.

Tuesday October 9 1979

Today I took my gramophone and the Ruth Draper records down to Annette Montgomery- Campbell's cottage at Portslade. I see what Edna means, - it is right next 'to a huge lorry-garage, Annett's sitting-room is like a cellar almost, with one window so high up you can't see out of it, and anyway is only looks out on the garage! Some lovely furniture, but all a bit mucky. She is very quick for 89! She relished the R.D. records - and of course they take her back to her old world. I got there at 3.30, having left home at 1.0, and got back at 8.15. Cost, I don't like to think.

Ran my bath, got the dinner - pork chops, brussel sprouts, mashed pots., ice-cream. Ken got in about 8.45, rather depressed. The voice man had got at him, and altogether he'd felt inadequate. Good. Though I must say the voice man sounds phoney.

Wednesday October 10 1979

A telephone-calls day. Long talk with Neil. Poor darling. Going to 'push', and go about looking glamorous. Well, let's hope.

Many calls about Edna, incl. one from Edna herself, at five to ten! Deloraine reported that the possibilities for the operation looked good, and that a complete recovery was more than possible. Edna asked me to ring her friend in Glasgow. Odd. We talked for four pips worth, so it would have been quite possible for Edna to ring Glasgow herself. However.

Ken was in better spirits tonight. As the telephone calls went relentlessly on, he took over the dinner, and put the cabbage and sausages on, cut up the potatoes into chips and put them in the fat, took responsibility, in fact. Good. We worked thro' a speech from 'Flying Blind', and did really good work, and then talked, interrupted by telephone calls! - till quarter to twelve. He is a well-balanced boy. I love him for stepping back and trying to see things as they really are. (He still does vivid imitations of people too forcibly, good but too vivid, too much like the life and soul of the Amateur Operatic Society for me to be able quite to look.) His judgement of actors is unusually good for his age. I already love his company.

Friday October 12 1979

Last night Ken B. impressed me very much. Apart from giving me one of the memorable laughs of my life, trying to hide from me that his parents' house wasn't double-fronted, he also showed me yet again his healthy detachment from RADA.

Sunday October 21 1979

It has been so hectic since last Sunday - an engagement every night. Nothing to do with Ken, tho' of course there's always one more to cook for. So, let me recap.

On Saturday the 13th I went to Bunny's, to do her garden again. Ken drove me over on Sat and chatted for a bit, - his idea, a good one - they got on very well, tho' there is nearly seventy years between them. I cleared more than half of the rectangular bed, and the edging and the path. It is a pleasant job to me, and I can give charity with no cost to myself. Guilt, guilt. I quite forgot to say that on Friday the 12th, the Curator of the Theatre Museum, Alexander Shourn-Coff, came to look at D's dressing-place, which I had laid out as it always was - (or, at least, was, after I got my hands on it during S.D.!) and it made a pretty and touching sight, with a combination of the silver and pretty boxes and the more workaday tin of Crane's Cremme and the sticks of make-up and little mascara and eye-shadow pots. A. Sharaloff was tall, dark, handsome, in a blue- pinstripe suit and smart collar and tie - and very very reserved and withdrawn. He took some time to say 'No' when I offered him a drink. Part of the reserve may have been proper professional caution in case what he was offered had to be refused. However, he became less shy as time went on, and was, I think, moved by the dressing-place. He kept thanking me for the lunch, and was someone I would like to meet again, tho' he scarcely said anything memorable.

On Sunday Oct, 14, Crispin Thomas came to spend the day. Oh, what joy. He is so lively and impatient, with his sparkling black eyes and straight features and go. We talked and talked and exchanged ideas; then about four went to 'Alien' an idiot science-fiction film at the Odeon, Chelsea. Ken was here that w/e, and I am glad he met and liked C.T. Might be a help one day. And he'd never seen the King's Rd.! Quite a few punks about. How sad and ugly they look, with those bright colours, and spiky hair dyed magenta and chrome, and safety-pins in their ears and noses, - truly they make me feel I live in a decadent time. And then I looked at Crispin and Ken. A lovely day, feeling the theatre had a future in both of them.

On Monday Neil and Lynda came to dinner. Despite their tan and their youth and glamour, I thought they were a bit frantic, especially N., - he talked with too much animation, desperately giving out vivacity and colour. Well, we're all a bit guilty of that, when we've been out of work for six months. Ken liked and was liked by both of them.

Tuesday was almost the climax. I lunched at Gerard's. I waited for him in what is left of the church after the fire. The south transept has been breeze-blocked in, quite acceptably, and I fear is probably more than big enough. Two glass-doors in the breeze-blocks gave on to the chancel and nave, rusty radiators lying about on bits of black and white marble pavement, with buddleia coming up thro' the cracks. Last time I'd seen it, the church had been full, and we were sitting behind C.P. Snow and Pamela Hansford Johnson. Now Gerard will be there till he retires. No promotion, no bishopric.

Enjoyable lunch as always. Lady Gladwin, little fluttery thirties chump, with a lot of thirties make-up. Gerard handed me the smoked salmon, muttering over my shoulder, 'Oh, there's a nasty bit on yr. plate', - I looked and saw a great smear of dried egg-yolk. Oh how it carried me back to 1952 and Kingly St.

At six o'clock, having just had time to get home, and do Ken's dinner I was out again to pick up Simon C. at the National. He was in the dreary Green Room, like any modern canteen. We had a brief drink with two rather characterless people; then S. whisked me away, saying they were only back-up box-office staff, so -. (Still, I'd been quite interested in hearing about the woman's flat, and the renewal of her lease or not.) Then we walked across Waterloo Bridge, with me trying to stop Simon pouring out all about 'Amadeus' before we got settled somewhere. We went first to Rumours, the largest (I think) of the new Cocktail Bars which the young people are taking to. The setting is an old pub, which has been opened up, but isn't smart enough to go with cocktails. But the cocktails were real and so were the prices. Barmen in white shirts and bow- ties, backed by a big show of bottles, seemed to know what they were doing. My Dry Martini wasn't bad. Simon had five cocktails, all different, with a reckless disregard of their contents, brandy, rum, gin, never mind. However, as he ate and drank his way through a full dinner afterwards (the Granga - not what it used to be, food a bit cold, and the lamb s. sauce not quite right) Let me look at Simon. About five foot eight or nine. Very strongly built, round chest, short sturdy legs. Small delicate soft hands. Long face, long concave nose, like a duck's beak. eyes fairly close together, sending dazzling beams of good will and appetite in all directions. Hair black, very curly, like a short natural early 18th Century wig. He was wearing an oldish leather jacket and an open-neck red shirt. I was in a blue pin-stripe suit, waistcoat, white collar, all complete. And he paid. What can the other people have thought of our relationship? It gave me great amusement. Of course he is having a tiresome time. Peter Hall is no director. In fact, I think he's like Harold Wilson - once he's got the power, he starts to crumble from the inside. S. is amazed to find Peter H. rather weak, vulnerable, 'We all have to be nice to him', and is of course depressed, as we all are, at our first realisation that someone in great authority won't, after all, be solving all our problems. Paul Scofield is 'simple, stupid and worried by the size of the part'. Fancy. As for the play, I don't know. Although they have had eight weeks rehearsal, in fact it has been more like three weeks, with people having time off for board meetings if they're Peter Hall, and matinees if they're Simon. It begins with a four-minute monologue for P.S. explaining the 18th Century! At the first reading it ran for 5 1/2 hours, and I bet it hasn't be cut enough. I am chary of the whole thing, but have to go to the first night. I feel as if Simon had always been a friend of mine.

On Wednesday afternoon the V & A came to photograph D's dressing place. Pleasant intelligent plain girl, with spots, poor dear, called Sarah Woodcock. Seemed thrilled with my photos and collection generally. They left about four and I got ready to go to the National to meet Joyce and her lover of the moment, Jeremy Hornby, having left supper for K. I met J. in the airport lounge the National call a foyer, and had nice chats, ruined by J.H. A tubby spoiled child with a beard, he showed off and sulked and refused to stay for the second act of the play. Alas he was still there when we came out. But the supper at Bianchi's was not so tiresome as I expected. He was less shy and defensive, talked of a play he's writing, asked to send it to me for advice! He is by no means unintelligent but I think at 43 he should be a little more grown-up and less self-centred. Joyce deals with him badly, of course, telling him off, attempting to correct him, always making him worse. Dear girl. Play thin and tired. Michael Redgrave sitting saying nothing was embarrassing, not art. When the wife said about halfway thro' Act II, 'You've gone very silent, dear', there was the wrong sort of laugh. John Standing a little too accomplished. Arina M. as good as ever, but the poorest part I've ever seen her play.

John and Joyce came to dinner on the Thursday, sweet quiet mild old-friendship evening. And Kenneth charmed both of them. His manner and manners are really very nearly perfect. Although he does not know one or two of the forms, he never makes a mistake about the content of good manners. He really behaved perfectly, - was there and not there in absolutely the right proportions. Remarkable.

On Friday K's girl-friend, Victoria Maynard, came to dinner. A small, dark pretty girl, bright, intelligent, and warm, shy of me a little, and therefore perhaps, subduing the more interesting part of her mind - after all, she's only 17. All the same, I'm not quite sure she's the one. We had a pleasant evening, but I remember nothing she said or any of her opinions. At about a quarter to ten, he got up, grabbed her hand, said, 'Let's go upstairs, I don't think I've shown you my timetable'. I don't know I kept my face straight, tho' I do like young men to be masterful.

On Saturday I was actually free. I went to the pictures - the new Touffant and the last of the Antoine Drinel films, with many flash backs to the others. I saw all the others with D., so was glad to go alone, and imagine. Ken was out with Vicky all day, so no dinner to get. But in all Sunday, practising the piano and guitar, (tho' I hardly heard) and reading and rehearsing. It is almost most extraordinary that already I feel no pressure from his personality in the house. So that I can go away and read and really relax. Tim Hardy and Angela Down came to dinner. Yes, I am fond of them up to a point, but he is too caught up in himself, too clamping and narrow in conversation, and indeed more often than not, wrong! She is worth six of him. K. saw them clear after one evening. We had to watch 'Tinker Tailor' at their request, which I regard as a real insult. K. was splendid again. Helps with the half an hour washing-up afterwards without a murmur. All seems to be going well at RADA. First impressions are over and he'll now be sorting out the sheep from the goats. The morning after Vicky, he said, 'Thanks for entertaining her so well - it meant a lot to me.' And as he went out, murmured something like 'I was nervous about my two closest friends meeting'.! Well, I am flattered.

Monday October 22 1979

Tonight Donald and Ann came to dinner. Ann interested me - she came out to me, questioned me about the theatre, inspired me to 'let off ' about Olivier-Gielgud, and altogether seemed to be asserting herself as a more positive person. In fact, now she has left Guildhall, she feels the wings of her genius starting to move.

Ken was again perfect. So touching later about Vicky's b'day scent.

Tuesday October 23 1979

Perhaps because Ken is away in Reading for his girl-friend's b'day and he is the only positive thing in my life just now, I was depressed this morning again. However went on with Bunny's garden this afternoon, she praised me lavishly and I felt I'd justified my existence.

But am I never going to get any work or make any money?

Thursday October 25 1979

Ken went to 'Lark Rise at Candleford' a promenade (sic) prod. at the Cottesloe. I was so pleased with his reaction. He hated it, and was outraged by the mess and lack of mystery, left 10 mins before the end, and was finally utterly shocked by seeing Gavin Grainger on the way out, in costume at the bar, saying, with a smile, 'There's ten minutes' more to go.'

Tonight Prim came to dinner to record 'A Sister to Assist Her'. He'd done it before she got here. Another lovely evening. She taught him to waltz, for his night out at Quaglino's on Sat. As we were clearing the dinner-things, he picked a green Aloneria grape, and said, 'What is this, is it a gooseberry?' And ate it.

Saturday October 27 1979

A first tonight. Last night went out to Guildford to see Stoppard's 'Every Good Boy Deserves Favour'. Tim Hardy was in it, and was better than I expected. It is very thin, and the music like a middling film score. So considering it was played by a sizeable orchestra ...... Still, I'm glad I saw it because Tom S's mind is always worth a visit. But the whole expedition...! Getting myself down there, in the rush-hour, in a slow-moving crowd all the way to the queue at the ticket-office, dozing in the tram, because I was so tired; in the station, an announcement asking that Julian Slade go to the station-master's office (did I really hear that?), coming out into pouring rain, and the walk to the theatre, - I remembered the way tho' I was last here for 'What Every Woman Knows' in 1967. An expensive drink and a sandwich. Colin Baker in the bar. He also drove me back to London where we all had supper at Polly-Anns's Bistro on the Common. Narrow table, I near the wall, so could not get out until after two! Happily the girl next me was a dear, Gwen Taylor. And very pretty. But still ... and then there was teasing because our talk was so animated. Felt tired today. In book-room this aft. fell asleep over my book for nearly three hours!

Sunday October 28 1979

Really, Kenneth is unusual. He has to prepare Sonnet 29, 'When is disgrace' etc. for Jane Howell (oh dear.) He asked before dinner if he could say it for me. But after dinner, decided not to because J.H. is such an enemy of any sort of finish. 'And she and I have a kind or armed truce' - was that the phrase he used? At any rate, with unusual maturity, he sees that it will be better if he lets J.H. have a dim 'go' at him.

Monday October 29 1979

Oh my god, no work.

Tuesday October 30 1979

Another despairing tired day. Kept getting back into bed. Eventually got myself off to Bunny's to go on doing the garden, taking over some heucheras and geraniums.

He erupted into the house having read part of the 'Set down, set down yr.' scene, and finding it living and moving, and firing up the Lady Anne. Thrilling. I'm tired and hate myself.

Wednesday October 31 1979

I am so ashamed that I let out about the horrors of sliced bread etc. and the hideous taste that allows shops to sell it, without thinking that Ken's family always has it.

The only recompense I can make is not to mention it again. He is such a good boy.

Thursday December 27 1979

Bournemouth.

I wish I had kept on. But I am still out of work, and because too depressed to go on. However, I can sum up my life with Kenneth by transcribing what he wrote in the very expensive Christmas present he gave me, 'Noel Coward and His Friends', 'A smashing landlord, a helpful director, and a wonderful friend.' I shall attempt a resume, not so difficult as usual, as there's no work.

On November 1, I went to see 'The Petrified Forest' at RADA. I was not impressed. It is a silly play to foist on students in any case, and has never worked well in England. How it reeks of 1938-9.

Who played Alan Squiers was surprisingly good, as I imagined it was the most difficult part. Also .... as Bree, showed me that he could earn a living. He can look in a woman's eyes and make the audience believe in his lust if not his love. The following night I went to the first night of 'Amadeus' at the National. I tried hard to overcome my dislike of the building, but the overheard spotlights burning down so unbecomingly on one's poor bald head, and the audiences from the other theatre sharing the same foyer, and diluting the feeling, worked their old anti- spell. The play, first of all, gave opportunity to Simon to give a first-rate eccentric perf. as Mozart crackling with vitality, and that all important unease which genius communicates. I mean the unease that Mozart communicated - I do not mean that Simon gave a perf. of genius. Paul Scofield as Saliero was as good as I have ever seen him, and better than he's been for years. He deploys all his wonderful gifts, - the tall well-made figure, handsome but interestingly lined and haunting face, the mannered voice creaking, croaking, trumpeting and whispering, but in clarity and power, not lost in inaudibility and affectation as so often. The play has the normal meretriciousness and glitter, that air of intellectual daring and innovation, even of originality, while actually running in very old grooves indeed of vulgarity and cliché. Pinero, in fact. The smart audience loved it, and it's a smash hit. Simon got the curtain before P.S. I hope he's made, tho' 'As You' is not a success at all. I sat with some of his friends, Stuart Hopps, the choreographer, his friend, Rick ? of whom more anon. and Penny Chearns, a director. Short, sturdy, in definitively and defiantly workaday clothes, half-smothered by a knapsack, she sat hating the play. I liked her at once. Rick ? When I saw him in the bar, looked very very like David Day of France's Day and Hunter, so much so that I stopped and looked. However I thought, oh well and went on. (Three days later, David Day rang up about some friends wanting a window-cleaner and we spoke for the first time for ten? years. Either the biggest coincidence ever, or he is leading a double life. Fancy.)

On November 5, Neil D. came to lunch very out of work, too, and we did some work on his audition speeches. He is a joy to me, being of something the same temperament, and understanding part of him as for instance, John and Joyce can't begin to.

Monday April 7 1980

Dorothy has been dead for three years.

Wednesday May 21 1980

A weekend packed with incident. Lalla flew to Canada on Saturday, her first time out of the country, and first flight. Ken came back on Sunday, and announced on Monday night that he was moving into a flat or bed-sit with the new girl-friend, Kate Behean. Ah well, what a pity. I do feel a bit let-down. And I certainly feel that it's a distraction from his work, it makes me think less of him as a possible actor. I also feel how lovely to have the house to myself.

Last night Derrick rang, to say that he was having another operation, a more serious one, two or three weeks. No chance of ray-therapy instead, too dangerous. And the word 'malignant' mentioned.

I rang Michael Barrington tonight, and Derrick had said to him that he didn't think he'd be able to look after him properly.

So I don't think it's wrong to start looking around.

Wednesday July 2 1980

Edna left me today. During a very successful visit, she told me that she felt her panters were failing, so we fixed all the various addresses, solicitors, etc.

Tuesday July 22 1980

I'm going to attempt a retrospective from Nov. 5 two pages back, when I tried another on Dec. 27. On November 7, I had the first experience of Simon with money. Saying 'The best thing about being rich, is that one can give one's friends presents.' (as well as acting success he has been left £5000 by an aunt) he arranged to meet me for tea at Fortnum's. I think perhaps this was the beginning of our deep friendship. As Simon had usually worn a shabby red shirt and black leather jacket, and I had slightly dreaded facing whatever maitre there is at F's tea-room, I was relieved and touched to find him in a pale light-weight suit, beautiful pink? shirt and exquisite silk tie. He ate freely and completely of a huge tea, talking as always, non-stop, until he went over to Burlington Arcade to buy some Turkish cigarettes from Thingummy and Powell. Then wandered off to a cocktail-bar in Covert Garden! It is apparently well-known to the young. Oh of course. I've described it before. We drank, in my case, about five very strong martinis, in Simon's, a gallop through the menu of cocktails, his favourite being a disgusting milky looking affair, but all five having a different base. Music deafening. We then went to the Sherlock Holmes play at the Haymarket. Oh, dear, pretty empty. Gerald Harper cynical and also pretty empty. One or two good effects. Kate O'Mara a shriek.

Two Kenneth events. His mother and sister came to tea, a great success, but his mother is certainly rather a primitive woman socially. Two girls from RADA, Kate Behean and Susanna Bungay, came to dinner. Kate B. the girl he lives with now, a nice plain dull girl, with awful clothes, and a way of grimacing when she speaks, which she'll have to get out of, and Susanna B. a pretty girl in a deeply common way. I didn't like her at all, I thought she was empty and shallow.

On November 26, I went to the NFT with Ken to see Derek Jarman's 'The Tempest'. Very silly. On his b'day I took him to 'Stage Struck'. Alan Bates very campy and playing the whole thing at the top end of his voice. The play like 'Sleuth' without the little surprises. On Nov. 14, Peter Bourke came to dinner, small pinched, affectionate, but too eager to please.

On December 17, Derrick M. went into hospital for an anal operation, turned out all right, but came back in April, after another minor operation in February. Again St. Mark's which has graven across its front, 'St. Mark's for the Fistula etc.' I quite expected to see 'By Appointment to Henry VIII.' He seems all right now (July) but the word 'malignant' has been mentioned. Nice man called Ernst Walder took over his telephone.

On Dec. 19 Lalla came to stay, to see Ann make, I suppose, her operatic debut in London at the Riverside Theatre, H'smith, in 'Le Perichole' She was one of the three chorus ladies in the tiny company. Charming, as was the staging of the whole thing. It really is a good idea to do little sketches as it were, of an opera. The orchestra has more or less one instrument in each section. The next night Simon came with us to see 'The Barber'. Very amusing, and Ann very nearly very good indeed. Wig a mistake and stood badly, but singing sometimes heavenly and more bravura, at last. Simon spent the next day with me, lunch with Lalla, and then talk and records, and to 'Uncle Vanya' at H'stead Theatre Club. Really not at all bad, except for N. Hawthorne who is simply not a leading actor. Alison Steadman v. good and very touching, except only a detail, too explicitly and too repeated an underlining of her properly gauche movement. I went down to B'mouth for Christmas. Donald and Ann were there, too. Apart from him trying to take a photograph of me carving the turkey, at which I snapped very sharply indeed, all went smoothly enough. But I shall not spend Christmas with him again if I can avoid it, without hurting Lalla's feelings. Despite Ann being so sweet, we still are basically different. (Imagine that he could send me a card the other day from Versailles, beginning 'Everything here is on a grand scale.' That, and the carving-photo, and the enormous absurdity of both, shows me in a rush. How I miss D. That's why I value Simon so much - he has something of the same naturally high standards as she.

On Monday, January 7, Simon and I went to see 'Peter Pan' at the Shaftesbury. Terrible tatty prod. Lost boys dangerously pubescent. Simon said, in the interval, 'I'm just going round to see Slightly.' Mrs Darling was absurd, Captain Hook lazy and slack, but Gayle Hunnicut good and faithful and true as Peter. Made me cry. On Thursday, Jan 10, I had dinner with Kit and Di Barclay, dear sweet good kind people. Their boy is quite restored, shows no sign of the frightful ordeal.

On Friday, Jan 11, I went to the 30s Exhibition at the Hayward. It was strange to see youngsters staring at frames with Mickey Mouse Weekly and cases with Dinky toys and Hornby trains, and Yardley scent packaged like the ones we always gave Mummy for Christmas. Strangest perhaps the thirties flat like all the masters' rooms at school, the low bookcases, pale oak, pale colours. I still don't like it.

On June 12, Ken drove me to Cheltenham to see 'The Merry Gentlemen', the only musical of D's I'd never seen. He was nervous about the timing so we arrived in Oxford at elevenish, and had to tour the colleges - it was piercingly cold - till lunch. We lunched at the Saraceno in Broad St.?, just before you turn in Beaumont St. We were received charmingly by the front of house manager, and dear Crispin Thomas had driven over from Exeter. Of course, the show was very crudely done, not least by Malcolm F. who actually did a back-kick on one exit as Father Christmas, and by the woman playing D's part. I'm glad to have heard it spoken aloud all the same. I could reconstruct her perf. as no one else could. She always refused to make fun of herself, and therefore not only kept her dignity, but was more subtly continuously and satisfyingly comic than any other actress I've ever seen.

The next day, Sunday, I went to lunch with dear funny shy Riou Benson and his very intelligent wife, Elizabeth, at their flat at Coleherne Court. He described the guests, temptingly, 'my dotty sister' and another friend who'd 'never really got over his divorce'. Both of them rather sharply, lived down to their reputation. She was pathetic, and he was a startling bore. Good nursery lunch, tho' I was staggered to find that roasting a joint was a mysterious arcane process for clever Elizabeth. In the evening another of Ken's classmates, John Marshall came to dinner. Short, twinkling, crinkly black hair, little red cheeks, rather defiant but kindly really. Over dinner he showed his brilliant improvisatory talents, as a dotty disc-jockey. (Alas, it seems he is better over a dinner-table than on the stage.) He sat up drinking a bit compulsively, and then didn't go to work the next day, having stayed the night! The next afternoon I took Ken and John to see the film 'Breaking Away' my second visit. As light as a feather, a distinct advance for America in lightness of touch and civilised charm. I'd put it among my first dozen films for pleasure.

The next month was very grey and cold inside me, I'd been so long out of work. It was also enlivened by a further financial crisis, at one moment of which the bank and my accountant seemed to want me to sell the house. Amazing. However, I went to see David Long and he was so sweet and encouraging and sensible I felt there was much more leeway. Simon was so kind and offered to lend me money - him! And John N. wrote me the kindest and most helpful letter, which I shall take out and read whenever I feel low. I won't treat any more of money in this retros. except to say that this very unsympathetic bank-manager, Alan Booth, is leaving this very week, having got promotion in two years, no doubt by dint of upsetting a good many more customers much worse than me.

On January 30 I went to see 'Undiscovered Country' at the National, translated by Tom Stoppard. From the first moment by the slope of her head and her whole pose, I knew Dottie Tutin was going to be lovely, and she was. Though she too, like so many middle-aged stars, is slipping into an affected delivery perhaps because, like Paul Scofield, in 'Time Remembered' long ago (and now!) she has no one loving enough to tell her. I'm sure Derek doesn't. I wrote her a fan letter, and got such a sweet one back, from Billingham, poor darling, where she was opening in a play which later flopped. About Madame Dubarry. Oh dear. With Donald Pleasance. Oh dear dear. I long to get this up to date.

An aphorism. Informality depends on formality - not the other way round.

Heard on a TV prog. You're so spontaneous - don't ever change.

On Jan. 31, dear Simon took me to Covent G. at goodness knows what cost, well, I do, £11 a seat. 'Mayerling', the MacMillan ballet, with Stephen Jefferies magnificent as Rudolf, a real actor. Alfredo Thorogood, a little withdrawn, tho' delicate and dancing beautifully. The next night to Joyce's where the other guest was Michael Clark, from her previous job. Small, bearded, long-haired, fair, like a weak Christ, he is perhaps a writer by temperament, all the same. But whether he has any resolution, is another matter. On Tuesday February 5, I went to see the Rustaveli Co. in 'Richard III'. From Georgia in Russia. Wonderful expressive lively caricatures. Wish some of our actors could be as expressive in as many different ways. Tho' not needed in English Shakespeare or you distract from the words as poor old Larry is there to testify. On Friday Feb. 8, saw Masks and Faces at the NFT. To me, quite fascinating with its prologue with Alexander, Barrie Have Shaw etc. And the film for all sorts of reasons. What it must be like for someone who didn't know, as I did, a lot about each actor, I can't imagine. On Sat. Feb 9, I at last started to work, another episode of 'Rings on Her Fingers', thin and tasteless little affair, but pleasantish people, so it was no effort at all. On Wednesday, Feb. 13 I spent the evening with Simon and can't remember a thing about it, except that I'm sure it was all radiant pleasure. On Feb 27, I finally went to Cardiff to do my 'Lloyd George'. In the end, I loved the youngish director, John Heffyn-Evans, and Philip Medoe, the L.G. and enjoyed every minute. Stayed at the Angel, which used to be so nice. Still looks the same at a glance, but at once I noticed that one of the beautiful pair of standard lamps in the hall had an inferior shade. The room was a commercial traveller's box, and the restaurant, tho' still with the old waiters and the same trappings, left me unattended in the middle of the room for well over two minutes, a long time. Food uncertain and too expensive. Other cheaper restaurant downstairs v. common, and other guests quite unknowing. Charges the same as a good hotel. To London Feb. 24. During 'Rings On' met a young actor, Stephen Jean. We clicked. He's a friend of Peter Bourke, and god-father to his baby, also lives very near me and has a car. So we went to the opening play at the new Lyric, H'smith, which Peter was in. 'Country Life', ad. from Goldoni. Feebly done. The two girls, as it might be, Gwendoline and Cecily, were almost without style or comedy. Julia Foster has no hauteur, no back-bone, and darling Ciaran Madden has no comedy. David Gwilliam personable and reasonably good in the lead. Only Ellan Pollock had the right size for the play. Feeble. Moving to walk through an office block and come out into the dear old Lyric. On Feb 28, Kenneth's father came to dinner, was it? A dear, mild and gentle, and simple. Like Ken. However, I shan't see him again. The next day I went to see Cyril Cunningham, the old actor I visit for the Actors Benevolent Fund. A hideous little Council flat in a block in Islington. A busy road one side, a muddy courtyard with clothes-line and shouting children the other, and a noisy West Indian family above. He told me his secret this time. He was having an affair with a green-grocers assistant (male) who wrote him a letter detailing what they would do on their next meeting. The idiot then dropped it in the street, where a kindly soul found it, read it and took it to the police. Cyril, coming home late not having eaten, was taken to the p. station, tried and imprisoned for 18 months. From the moment he was arrested he never spoke, attempted no defence. When he came out of prison, he had nothing and nowhere to go. He went to an old landlady in H'smith, and she said, 'Here's £1. You can sleep on the sofa till you find something.' Terrible, and I'm ashamed to say I haven't managed to get there since.

On Sat. March 1, I had tickets for 'Papillion', the new S.W Theatre Ballet ballet, with Stephen Jefferies at The Rajah. Simon couldn't come, so I asked Stephen Jean. Tall, pale, slight, with a gap between his front teeth, bald with an auburn wig (I wasn't even sure at first) he laughs easily and is delightfully frank about his scandalising sex-life. Goes to homosexual orgies. Ballet very nearly delightful. Unusually I think it should be longer. And someone else but R. Hynd should extend it. First act and especially first 20 mins of 2 are utter pleasure. Jeffries really funny, really strong, his turns are to me the best of any British dancer.

Bunny wants to get rid of an armchair. Stephen could do with it. Good. I arranged that successfully, tho' it took a little while, and he got a nice cane-back cane-sided lounge for 310. On March 5, Edna came up for two nights, specially to go to the Post-Impressionist Exhibition at the R.A., the biggest ever? No, but I think the choicest, and perhaps the last such possible because of the insurance. Even I could see how thrilling it was, and took real pleasure in it. Simon came to dinner on the Thursday, to meet E. I think she found him a bit ebullient at first (how I love him for that) but she loves him now, since her proper visit.

On Tuesday March 11, Michael Clarke came to dinner. Joyce was amazed not only that he accepted but that he got here. He is v. quiet, v. unassertive, and quite startlingly self-centred. Had a nervous breakdown last year. Talked of him and his troubles all night, a good many of them of his own creation.

On Wednesday, March 12, I took Ken to 'La Fille Mal Guardee', his first visit to C. Garden and ballet. That family only have sat in the house eating fish fingers and baked beans, I think. Enchanting, David Well and Lesley Collier, as Ashton only can be. Soft, tender, merry. Ken was impressed by the smartness of the audience, which is more like the old theatre audience. On Friday March 14, I had one of Ken's class to dinner. The other couldn't come, and Ken was with Kate, I think. Ian T. is very young-looking, with a tiny little thin moustache, and very fine smooth skin and a little red on the cheek-bone. Medium height, pleasant features, common accent, but nothing wrong with the voice. Very natural. Faced with the array of knives and forks, (I was feeling quite unjustifiably rich and it was smoked salmon and quail!) he said, with no edge either way, 'Which end do I start?' Stayed the night in the little spare room. Might have talent. On Saturday, March 15, cut Miss Till's lawn, but her request, very funny. 'Well, when can you come? No, it wouldn't be convenient at 3.0 on Saturday. I shall be visiting a friend in hospital. Why can't you come at 5.0?' So I said I would. She rang at 4.0. 'I've got back sooner than I thought. Can you come now?' So I did. Yet actually she's a dear. Has lived in the same double-fronted house in Kyrle Rd., since about 1904, and in the same road since her birth in 1894. On Tuesday March 18, went to lunch with Gerard. His new curate, Martin Draper, is sinister-looking with a long high-nostrilled nose, pale complexion, long thin figure, bitter, satirical, but intelligent, humorous and v. uncurate-like. Loves power and intrigue, I'd say. Cardinal Manning. In the evening to 'Born in the Gardens' at the Globe. Play very mixed. Beryl Reid superb comic perf. Barry Foster v. good. Peter Bowles and the girl in another play, flat and stupid and missing the point. Next night lovely little prog. on the radio about Robert Atkins. On March 21, went to Festival Ballet alone, not v. impressed by standard, but quite liked Tudor Dark Elegy which I never saw years ago.

On Saturday March 22, I went to 'As You Like It', with Simon and Sara Kestelman as Orlando and Rosalind. John Dexter had concentrated on the text consequently it was my sort of night. It was actually played as high comedy by two intelligent actors. Dear short square little Simon, seemingly without any qualms as to his complete unsuitability for the part, so he brought it off to the point that I shall never think the same of it again. Also the Silvius was good, Greg Hicks. I believed he was in love. We went to Le Barca, a little Italian place just by the back entrance of Waterloo Station. Dear Pedrone, Luciano, quite young, with a bit of a paunch, ideal manner. On Sunday March 23, went down the road to Jeanne Watts' for dinner. The other guest was the other understudy from the early days of 'Salad Days'. Haven't seen her for oh twenty years or so. A golden glowing girl - now a rather false Kensington matron, careful to underline the smartness of her block of flats, and the effulgence of her friends. 'Oh don't say how long ago it was etc. She has had a sad life, - her husband died quite young. I was a bit sad. I spent the next week in Bournemouth, mild, quiet, gardening. On my train back, there was a honeymoon couple in the next compartment. There was a tube strike, so I'd ordered a car. The taxi-queue was huge, so I ran back and said 'Come in my car'. Happily their honeymoon (at least from my point of view) was a weekend at the hideous 'Terminal' Hotel in S. Kensington; almost on my way home. They were suitably grateful, and I felt I had done a good deed very cheaply. On Wed. April 2, saw gems from 'The Malcontent' and 'Pericles' in a room at RADA. All v. poor and messy. Ken sentimental, working himself up into emotion, actually gold-fishing between affecting lines. On Good Friday, the 4, the chair saga reached its apogee and Stephen received it from Bunny. In the evening, we went to 'Cabaret' at RADA, again very poor really, even in gesture and audibility, for instance. Except for the boy playing MC., nearest to a touch of star quality I've seen there yet.

Spent the 7th, afternoon that is, with Bunny. She understands Joan N. was away in St. A. because of Easter. The next day I took Ken to NFT to see the Guardsman. Very impressed with the Lunts. I was surprised. They're still magical. Her clothes!

On Monday, April 14, Ann gave her recital at Wigmore Hall, her L. debut, I suppose. She was very nervous, but by the second group of songs, was singing steadily and well. Words like 'warm', 'delicious', 'delicate', and so on, are all there, a soprano Kathleen Ferrier, if that's possible. It seemed to be a success, tho' I know none of the people who should have been there and perhaps were not. A drunk man made a bit of a noise going out, to be followed later by a drunk woman who fell down. I sent her a Victorian posy in red pale pink and white. It cost £30. On April 16 I saw 'Dr Faustus' at the Fortune alone. F is such a patchy play that I never care deeply if they fiddle about with it. Altho' James Aubrey has little voice, he has something. The cast spent more time stripping each other down to jewelled jockstraps more often than the text really warranted. But I can't say I was bored. I can't also say the acting was of much a standard. (It's still on now, July 27!) On April 17, saw Duse's film 'Cenare' at NFT, Mario Aroimbide, Ken's 'class-mate', was there, and I gave him my extra ticket. Funny savage Mexican creature. Duse two or three moments, but the film is only for me and Simon etc. On Friday April 18, to the re-opening play at the Shaw, 'The Volunteer' by ? Very primitive and slow. Dreadful amateurish acting except for Clive Swift's son. What is M. Croft thinking about if that's the best script he could find to reopen after an 18 month's closure? On April 24 to M'chester for the read thro' of a new job a good part in a terrible new TV series 'Can We Get on, Please?' Oily little Welsh director, two of my least favourite actors, both addicted to forced caricature, Hugh Paddick (I'd do anything for a laugh' he remarked, during rehearsal, quite truly a silly old queen) and Sheila Steafel. My part was good because it was given a good build-up. The next day I was just able to get back, arriving at Euston at 7.0, in Stall C7 at 7.29 for Jonathan Pryce's 'Hamlet'. Well, it's a great performance. I had been put off by news of his speaking the ghost's lines himself, as if Hamlet were possessed. But I wouldn't have missed that alone. (I didn't quite see why the first scene had to be cut, or why Ophelia had to be on for 'To be or not to be.' But the 'possession' was extraordinary. The voice coming from the stomach was amazing enough but as well, nobody had described his movement, which looked as if he were being shaken violently by something 60 or 70 feet high. Also, everyone had mentioned the fire, energy, power etc. etc. but fewer had mentioned the abundant lyrical tenderness, from within. So that I was moved to tears just by his first two or three utterly wretched little glances round about him in the court-scene. They were so true they went straight to the heart. Jill Bennent absurd and old-fashioned as Gertrude. Michael Elphick too young and under-dressed as Claudius. The rest of the cast disgracefully poor. Ann was singing Galatea in the Whitehall Banqueting Hall, and had a great success on Monday April 28, the F. Times said her combination of gifts 'must ensure her a great future.' I couldn't go because of my TV. I recorded it on Thur. May 1, and the author sent me a p.c. saying 'Oh, if only the others had given a perf. like yours.' It was a mild little script, which needed situation playing, not forced gags. On May 7, Simon did 'As You' for the last time, so I sent him and Sara a wire saying 'Beauty passes like a dream'. On May 9, poor John N. was burgled, a curious burglary, as nothing was taken except a bottle of whisky, and all the papers and filing-cabinet turned up everywhere. The police seemed to think it was a political crime, and J. had been mistaken for someone else - there is a diplomat lower down in the same building.

On Monday May 12, two first nights. Prim in 'Motherdear' at the Amb. Stephen Jenn in 'Macbeth' at the Tufnell Park affair. On Friday May 16, Lalla went to Canada to stay with a nephew. First flight and first time out of England. On Monday May 26, watched a TV prog. about the Mitfords - one joke, the Duchess of D. said 'Nancy said one day to Unity, Jessica and myself, "Do you realise that the middle syllables of yr. names are Nit, Sick and Bore?"' Meanwhile I got another job. Governor of Holloway Prison in the first 'Ladykiller' about Madame Fahmy who shot her millionaire Egyptian husband in their suite at the Savoy, during a thunderstorm in 1923, 'parce-quil fait l'amour toujours par la derriere.' Rotten part, but I got £200 for a line! For both these last, I got £750. Charming director, Philip Draycott, real humour and brains, and then, of course, they always see the point of one. Barbara Kellerman, very attractive, very funny, and, I thought, v. good. (The notices have criticised her for being 'theatrical' and 'melodramatic, without apparently noticing that she gives a 'performance' because Madame F. was in fact guilty.) Robert Stephens, a bloated wreck of beautiful Athualpa, is still riveting, still drinking (7 double whiskies one lunch) tells funny funny stories, but like almost everyone makes them go on too long. Simon's first night in the Ayckbourn at the Nat. I longed to see it, and did a little later q.v. On Tuesday, June 10, Prim took me to lunch at the Ivy, before the matinee of 'Motherdear'. The Ivy still looks much the same, tho' the decor is just a little commercial-travellerized, the waiters are plentiful and expert, but the place was only a third full at 1.15 on a Tues., very dreary third it was, too. We had a drink before, a small carafe of white wine, asparagus, she Sole Walaska, a Sole Menniere, she no vegs. I a salad. Only I had coffee, and the bill was £32. And the asparagus was over-cooked. I heard a dreary man next me saying to some Americans, 'This is where the theatre people used to come.' Who drove them away? The play was very poor and clumsy, the opening consisting of twenty mins of people who'd been brought up together explaining their childhood to one another. Casting very poor, some perfs. utterly unworthy of the West End. Prim I think I could help. Her affectation of sweet reasonableness is rather embarrassing, and her thick blue eye-shadow is ridiculous. Then off I went to the Ayckbourn at the Nat., which is utterly delightful, tho' quite a few people are miscast ideally, Stephen Moore, for inst. and Anna Carteret is not a comedienne, poor timing, the acting is good, and the play very funny and true. Simon is splendid, and so again is Greg Hicks, and Salina Cadell. And especially Penelope Wilton, a deeply funny perf. Packed. Simon and I went to La Burce again. He told me more about Aziz. Went for day to B'mouth to do the garden for Lalla's return. Lily Trotman tried to get me to go in for a cup of tea. Goodness knows what complaints I'd have had, if I did. On Sunday June 15, Simon was 31. I took him a little print, and put it under the door. Didn't like to go in, in case he was having a celebration. On Friday June 20, George Parsons from my Lady Killer, came to dinner with Barry McGinn also in the cast. Barry McG. a bit pushy and truculent, so that I couldn't talk to G.P. as much as I liked. Both rather second-rate people, I'm afraid. On Saturday June 21, I went off to Shepherd's Bush BBC Theatre, to see Simon do his one-man show on Juvenal. Imagine filling a theatre and getting laughs 200 years later! Splendid middle-aged make up. Relish and variety - there seems nothing he can't do. Of course Vernon Dobtcheff, big beak of a nose tilted to see who's who think he sees with his nose - was in the queue. We sat together. Up to Vernon came a small neat almost pretty young man, with black hair and fine olive skin. They chatted. It was Aziz - of course Vernon knew him. He seemed mild and agreeable. I was surprised that he was of the 'little thing' type, just the sort I remember Terry Rattigan as having during 'The Sleeping O.' but not at all, I should have thought, Simon's type. I suppose there's nothing he can't do, in both senses. Went backstage to find a lot of people waiting, went into the room to find Marian Martin, S's agent, and her two side-kicks. She is a pleasant handsome thirty-fiveish woman with a wary look. Simon was in make up, so we asked the crowd in for a drink. S. came in, and chats went on. I chatted to Martin Sherman, the author of 'Bent', and an out of work director, Stephen Gilbert. I thought them both rather tiresome. M.S. is v. unattractive, weasly-faced, and smirking, and S.G. took his tone from him. I felt uneasy. I didn't see anyone else I like, so didn't go out to supper with them all. Anyway it was Sat. and transport is always difficult. On June 25, Edna arrived for her visit. We went off to the Nat. to see 'Sisterly Feelings', another version. Not quite so good, because Anna C. had more to do. On the way in, E. caught her hand only v. slightly on the car door, but, because of cortisone, it split into an inch and a half long, half-inch wide cut. Aziz met us, and was most efficient, getting the nurse, who was also most efficient. And Edna was v. sensible and forgot it. We went to La Barca and she and Aziz struck up a friendship, just as well, as it is impossible for S. and I not to talk theatre nonstop whenever we meet. Good manners go to the wind. It was the first night at the Vic of Richard Cottrell's 'Dream', his last prod. For the BOV., they all came in and the usual screamings and embraces and chatter, which swept over our table too, and Edna relished that too, for old times sake. We were there till nearly 2! The next night we went, with John N. to 'Amadeus'. Still v. difficult to get seats. Edna and J. loved it, it was cheered to the echo. I again enjoyed the acting, but as before was quite detached from the play. does not impress me much. Even less when I consider the claims made for it. John came back here for supper. We'd had a drink with S., who was off to give Aziz a b'day treat. A. was 30, so S. had got 'of course', 30 red roses, 30 candles, and so on, and a bottle of Chateau Latour of 1950! Sweet. The next evening Prim and Mary came to din., both in their different way, sad figures, all the more so since D's death, by which they seem to have been diminished. Not so Edna, who remains the same. Sat. we did nothing, to recover. E's old arm-chair in D's old sitting-room is a great joy to her. On the Sunday, to Hove to see Annette in her nursing-home. Hope E. found it worth the effort. Every visit would so easily be the last. Monday was 'Rose' at the D of Y. with Glenda Jackson. I'd booked the week before, and got H 13 or 14 or something like that, - and the House Full boards were out. Booking ahead isn't what it was. A very thin little play, almost a monologue, and not so good when it wasn't. An ending which was just a stop, and G.S. giving a very familiar display of her talents. Theatre quite lovely, perfect redirection, all in soft sherry-colour, and cream. Dignified. Next night 'The Dresser' at the Queen's, very nearly full. Again John N. and E. loved it. Just like Simon, I switched off after about 15 mins. F. Jones tall, what a surprise. T. Courtenay, has got into a groove, and his charming unaccented chattering has become a tiresome mannerism. John took us to Bianchi's. Dear Elena. Possibly I was tired - I certainly was, and it may have affected my judgment, but I don't think so.

On Friday July 4, John N. went off to Bangladesh, for 8 weeks. I shall miss him very much. On Sunday, July 6, I went to a party at lunchtime. I thought I'd break the rule for once. Delightful expensive flat in Iverno Court, where George Parsons lives with his boy-friend Jonathan Courage, whose flat it is, provided surely by his parents. So newly-decorated. Vegetarian food, plenty of wine. Left after about an hour and a half. Rather tiring. Two nice girls. On Monday July 7, I went to see Aziz's little film at CAPTA in Piccadilly. Of course, Vernon Dobtcheff was there, and of course he sat with me. Neat little film, definite talent, tho' Aziz doesn't think so! He talks himself down far too much, he's rich, which is such a mistake. Off home early, as I was filming the next day on 'The Mirror Crack'd, the new Agatha Christie. Old church hall, in the back of beyond in Rotherhithe. I never learn not to get there too soon. I was shown to a stuffy caravan, got some coffee, saw to my clothes, sat about, walked about. An hour later Norma Wooland, tall, slow, slow, slow, but mild, and Richard Pearson, round-faced, again mild, and intelligent and timid, joined me. I presided eventually over the Coroner's Court, and the director, Guy Hamilton, who did some of the James Bond films, said 'One-take Mackay'. He is tall, and calm and creates a pleasant atmosphere. He would be, I think, 'lazily humorous', but I fear his sense of humour isn't quite up to it. Saw Ed F. briefly but he put a barrier definitely between us, said he'd meet me over lunch and didn't. Alas and alack.

On Wed. July 9, the delightful young director from the Lake Killer, Philip Draycott, came to dinner. We clicked at once, he loves jokes and drink and actors. The evening was a joy.

On Friday July 11, Aziz came to dine. Brought a magnum of Bollinger! He is intelligent, humorous, and quick. Much more so than one of his looks usually is. But a fatalism in his view of his career. And it is true, I cannot imagine him fighting for his work, or producing very much of it. Simon came on after 'Amadeus', and gave him his smoked salmon and quail on a tray in the draw-room. It was lovely to see him shooting beams of bright love at Aziz. Good talk and fun. On Sat July 12, I went with him to the mat. of 'Nicholas Nicholby' at the Aldwych. I cannot say I was carried away, tho' there were incidental pleasures, especially Edward Petherbridge as Newman N., Suzanne Bertish, David Threlfall and Roger Rees. But too many of the perfs. were too small. And the Squeurs, Manalini and Ralph were quite wrong. The audience went wild, but then of course it's not a real audience. It's like a rep. The cast were wandering round the auditorium when we arrived. One of them who knew S., came up and Simon said 'Are you coming to talk to us as yourself or the character? Because, if as the character, go away_! Late that evening, I broke another rule, and again went out on a Saturday night to a party Aziz was giving in someone else's flat. It was in the wilds of Baron's Court, a rather shabby mansion- block. The front door was opened by a young Scot, presumably a resident. The food and drink were together in the kitchen, a mistake as it became absolutely jammed. However before that happened, I'd got a very large Scotch, which I noticed was very little in demand. I went back into one of the very shabby rooms, the emptiest where a large colour TV was showing the late night horror film. Aziz came in and greeted me rather helplessly. The music playing everywhere got louder. I met someone in films (he hoped) I'd met at the Juvenal show, and talked to him for a bit. Rather, he told me about his life for a time. A lot more people arrived. I fought my way to another drink, and observed that I was twenty years older than anyone else there. I talked to a silversmith at the pitch of my voice. Then Simon arrived. He had left 'N.N.' early to go and see Punt, the voice man. I told him it would be insane to stay shouting at the party. It was now incredibly full and hot and noisy. He didn't want to stay, so we were blown on to the pavement on a gust of noise. As we walked away, a car drew up. A negro got out, and pressed into our hands cards saying 'Ring's Soundz Mobile Disco', he assured us that he could make our party, and was always at our service. We thanked him. On our walk home, we turned a corner, and saw a poster saying 'Mozart for the throat'. We found a taxi eventually, and went back for a quiet drink at Simon's flat, or rather Stuart Hopp's. S.H. was lying on a huge cushion in the hall, wearily watching TV. after having put on a ballet. We went into the sitting-room. Two rows or so of LP records at least four feel long. We played the Sache Guitry 'Mozart' records, quiet chats, and I went about 1.45. Lovely.

On Monday July 14, I went to my nice solicitor down the road for dinner. She is the sweetest woman, Patricia. His sister-in-law home on hot weather leave from Damascus. Very correct and rueful and careful. But didn't like L. Olivier which made it easy to talk. Actors are often painted as being unable to talk about anything else but the theatre. No doubt true in some cases, but it isn't sufficiently noticed that public curiosity will hardly allow one to talk about anything else. The other guest was a singer. Big teeth, short upper lip which she never removed from beneath her nose, so I could hardly hear what she said. Shrimp pancakes. Tuesday, July 15 was my 54th birthday, and as a lovely present, there was the procession for the Queen Mother's 80th b'day for me to watch. All lovely as ever. Talked to some nice Americans, who were amazed by it all. I had to tell them it wasn't a show, it was real. In the evening, took myself to the new Pinter, 'The Hothouse'. Very amusing, very even cast, first time Pinter has cast and directed. Then to La Barca for supper with Simon. He told me at length about his feelings for Aziz, and for the first time, I was conscious of inadequacy in Simon. As so often with stars, his emotional life in simple. He described their last night and saying goodbye for ever, and finished up by saying that Mrs. Ychia had sent him an air-ticket to spend the w/e in Geneva! He gave me beautiful book on Country House Photography by Christopher Sykes' son.

On Wed. July 16, lunched with George Rowell, the Prof. of Drama at Bristol. Lunched, after a drink at the Garrick, at that sort of help-yourself for highbrows just below the Coliseum. Liked him more this time, because he showed impatience with Julian. Stephen Jean came round on the Thursday. He's a nice creature, but I fear is going to be disappointed in his acting ambitions unless he is a much better actor than I think. On Friday July 18, Philip Draycott rang to say let's go to the 'Dream' at the Vic. Lovely, so we did. It was really quite good. Lovers too farcical and physical for me. But, as I heard myself saying in the interval, 'I've always preferred a young Bottom.' Clive Wood, sturdy and red-haired, was delightfully bumptious, lovely comedy, sulked, came round, first-rate. Puck, Nicholas Grace, very good mover, good rich voice, also first-rate. Set fascinating. Bob Crowley. In La Barca afterwards he told me the story of his life and career. A hippy start, married at Camb. etc. etc. I don't know what it is about me, but I do get life-stories whether I ask for it, or not. On Wednesday July 23, started my new TV play, four-in-hand, with Patricia Hayes, nice, short, funny and little bit tiresome, a boy of 12 or so, Bobbie Collins? and a bluff poor man's Joss Ackland Constantin de Goguel. I looked up the director, Derek Lister, in my files, and found I'd put 'Nice in a small way.' And that's it. A small man. No wonder Philip D. doesn't care for him - they were trainees at Granada together - for P.D is a much bigger wider-ranging chap. But D.L. may get on better, there are so many small people in the business. To the Royal Ballet School perf. in the evening, at Richmond this year, with Wimbledon closed. I felt it was more ragged this year. Philip Bromhead, Victoria Dyer and Michael Crookes (like a re-born David Blair, little crooked smile and all) caught my eye. B'mouth for three days. Gwen and L. spent an hour discussing Gwen's going away for a week. G. said, 'I've got to have a holiday. I shall go mad if I don't.' She is 80, and does nothing all day as it is. Donald and Ann arrived as I left. She has a baby on Sept 1? Has just finished 'Nais' by Ramon at the Old Vic! Looks lovely. How wonderful I'm up to date.

Wednesday July 30 1980

Joyce and Jeremy came to dinner last night. They marry on Sept 20. He is better than he was on the two previous occasions, but oh dear his is so touchy, and you have to watch everything you say. I offered them a couple of my 1840's lithographs as a w. present. He looked at similar ones in the bedroom, and said nothing. They had a tiff over the pudding. Bother.

Thursday July 31 1980

To 'Can't Stop the Music', the new film which 'everyone' says is not a success. Well, no, but I loved bits of it, especially the raz-maitaz of the title number. Tynan died this week. He meant a lot to me in the old days. I stayed with him and his first wife for two nights when I left Cambridge. He knew an actor when he saw one. But alas was tone deaf to poetry, so couldn't tell the diff. between Larry and John. Saw a very negro couple with a very blond child in the tube.

Friday August 1 1980

Called to rehearsal at 12.0 instead of 2.0, 'as it's the director's birthday, and he wants to give you a glass of champagne over lunch, and you can't rehearse after that.' So I went, and had the champagne and did a little rehearsing. And came away and shopped for Gerard and Rose - guinea-fowl and fruit salad, (easy now those little seedless sultana grapes are in) and got the dinner ready. They arrived, the dear sweet creatures, with Michael Burridge, the great love of Gerard's life, whom I'd only met rather imperfectly before, in a big party. Nice-looking, slimly well-made, attractive, but very quiet and un-come-out-at-you, to the point that you think he may be hating it all. But not at all. Loves it all. But what goes on in the quietness? Perhaps nothing? But I wish I were going to Naples. He's a real mystery. And I expect nothing inside the box as usual.

Sunday August 3 1980

Have been reading lately the old Punchs. Am on 1926, July-Dec. The general strike in May. On August 15, a month after I was born, there was an earthquake, widespread and severe enough for there to be a joke about it in the Aug 25 issues. Well.

Last night that funny little camp TV. ASM Earl Tobias, whom I have half befriended, brought his boy-friend of 8 years standing to dinner. A sturdy quiet sensible actor of about 31. Keith Ladd. I liked his keen appetite and good sense and taste in records and his attempt to prevent poor Earl being as silly and empty as he is. After all, E. is 30. I must have a time alone with Keith. He is sensible and I would have liked to talk theatre with him without being interrupted by Earl's silly vapidity. Though Earl is stage-struck and enthusiastic, he is on the wrong line and will get worse. Keith is worth more, I think. They left at 4.30!! It was getting light as I went to bed.

Monday August 4 1980

The Queen Mother's 80th birthday. I went this afternoon to do Bunny's garden. We get on very well, but she is in pain, and will be ill if this goes on.

Watched a 2 hour prog. on BBC TV tonight on the Q.M's life, and two hours of the Gala at Covent Gdn. Got through 3 handkerchiefs and had the potty in the drawing-room so as to miss nothing. Magical and moving.

Tuesday August 5 1980

Prim came to dinner on splendid form, with Neil and Lynda. Neil had rung me before to say he and L. were going thro' a bad time, and had discussed selling Harbord St. before they moved in! Is going to come and see me for advice next week. Oh dear - of course he's out of work, and is going thro' another of his frantic periods.

Prim so sweet and funny and tactful.

Wednesday August 6 1980

Income tax demand for £1011, which takes precisely all my lovely new part. Today met Roy Marsden's wife - an actress called Polly Hemingway. She said, 'Angus Mackay?! Mrs. McIver mentioned you. We've bought her house, No. 27.' Just opposite. Oh dear. It's depressing There's no doubt. Not that they don't seem niceish but ordinary. And drop-in-ish.

Friday August 8 1980

Last night Nigel Pegram and his wife, April Ohlrich came to dinner. He retired into the background for her. She makes a very unlikely first impression - shoulder-length sixties straight hair, dyed blonde. A long concave nose, huge eyes, with a lot of iridescent blue eye-shadow, very brown, and any minute dried up from being too brown. But warm as warm can be, quick and funny and vital. She told me a story about Prince Andrew sleeping with a girl-friend of hers. I betrayed apparent great interest, but alas, it was an insubstantial story, with a remark of the Queen to the girl, or rather at the girl the next morning at breakfast, ('Andrew, those boards in yr. floor creak) which marked the whole story as apocryphal. I like them both, but they are irremidiably second-rate. Even if she hadn't said that she got laughs in 'Swan Lake', I would have second thoughts. But I enjoyed their co. in a second-rate way. Like Emrys James and his wife.

Saturday August 9 1980

A tired mild day. Went up to Hampstead in the afternoon to look for Simon's first-night present. A return ticket on the tube cost £1.30. I found nothing. Two of the XX book-shops have shut since I was last there a year ago.

Now watching two horror films on late-night TV which seems to soothe me. Am reading William Wharton's 'Birdy'. Unexpectedly well written for an American. Cannot imagine it will finish well.

Tuesday April 7 1981

Today Dorothy has been dead four years.

Monday June 8 1981

Doing jury-service, so on this strange day I'll write something. Something indeed. I have sold Manchuria Road, and moved into a maisonette in Baron's Court. Of course, my debts made it necessary. But the moment I decided to go for it, the decision I'd dreaded, lightened my whole spirit. I have been cold and uncomfortable in M. Rd. for some time, and it was getting irretrievably dirty. The new place is much warmer basically, with a large garden completely walled, and best of all, Mrs. Endean on the top floor who cleans three mornings a week for £5, a figure I can afford. If I never earn any money again!

It is 12.30, and I'm in a wine-bar across the road from the court, not been chosen yet.

Sunday July 12 1981

At the Academy Cinema, to see 'The Aviator's Wife' a new French film. I suppose I only write this in public because I always require some sort of audience.

But I'll just copy in one or two notes and jokes to get rid of the odd bits of paper. In no order. During a master-class on 'Swan Lake' Alicia Markova gave on television, she said, during the pas-de-deux, 'In this part you have to - how shall I say - you have to pour your heart out into this bit.' She searched for the mot juste quite calmly, and found it on the whole.

During another television programme, this time on a 'portrait' of William Walton (and oddly there's been no biography yet) they were considering the writing of 'Belshazzar's Feast.' Cut to Sir Sacheverell Sitwell, 'Well Willie always claimed that the writing on the wall wasn't "Mene mene, tekel, upharsin" but "Aimee Aimee, Semple McPherson',

On

I went up to lunch with Cyril and Twin Luckham. Her rather private joke name had put me off her in prospect. But she is good and kind and true, worth a dozen of him. They lent me a bound set of programmes covering the time when he and D. were together at L'pool. Also notices stuck in. Gosh, D's notices were marvellous.

Two new Maud C stories. After the theatre had been repainted, and she'd gone home a bit ill, she said the next day, 'I think I must be lethargic to paint.'

After a visit to Venice 'And we went in a Lagonda'.

He described a young actress going on and on in D's dressing-room about her marital difficulties. She left. Pause. D. 'Sex. Ugh.' (Memo. During 'It Depends What You Mean' Cryil, mugging away and D saying 'Not too intimate, not too confidential.' Little does he know.

Wednesday April 7 1982

Today it's five years since D. died.

A new window-cleaner came this morning. I went to Kew Gardens this afternoon, and had a cry in the Fern House. Prim took me out to Cafe des Amis tonight.

Saturday April 10 1982

Joyce Carey, dear Joyce Carey, in an interview said, 'Lilian always said you should say one nice thing a day, but not to everyone, of course.' And of Noel, after an initial adverse judgement, and seeing him laughing loudly in restaurants, she was deeply impressed by him and her mother in 'The Vortex'. 'And then I didn't think him such a noisy young man.'

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 44

April 11 1982 - October 1982.

May 27 1982

The previous volume has come out of its binding, so I'll recopy it and start again. And take the chance to write down the progress, in greater detail, of a new and important friendship. (I meant Roy then!)

Sunday April 11 1982

The rule of law is the only rule that the stupid and the intelligent can agree on.

Note some months ago. Remember what a much worse time Julian has had than me all these years.

What I shall carry away from a biography of Stravinsky on TV tonight. On arrival somewhere, he looked out, and said, 'I think here we can get a bottle of Scotch.'

Wednesday April 21 1982

Met Ken Branagh for lunch at Joe Allen's. This was our first meeting since we parted in, well, anger, eighteen months ago. He is an interesting boy - there is something calculating there beneath the sunny pleasant naiveté - odd eyes. I'm fond of him, I find, still, and he took trouble over the talk, so I'll go on with it and see.

In the evening to see 'Not Quite Jerusalem' at the Royal Court, a first? play by Paul Kenber. Very funny, and skilfully written. David Threlfall miscast, and a very odd rude chap to meet. I said I thought it might be nice to go back to my house for supper. Without looking at me, he said 'I've booked at the Chinese takeaway round the corner.' Oh dear. I turned and fled. Was rather touched that Roy caught me up on the tube platform. Simon says D.T. is bloody awkward.

Thursday April 22 1982

Roy Mitchell stayed overnight, and has gone off somewhere. He is a nice creature, though perhaps too deprecating, too apt to play in to you. He is tall, a bit taller than me, well-built (plays football!) black hair, big speaking dark-brown eyes, a badly mauled left hand, and deaf and dumb parents. His hand was mangled by a bus when he was about five. His father has apparently never forgiven himself for not hearing the bus coming.

Monday April 26 1982

In the evening to a homosexual play 'Rents' at the Lyric studio. Not half bad and very well acted. Such plays are getting better, less excited by themselves, less partial. As, I hope, black plays feminist plays, etc. etc. will become also. Little Jimmy something from that awful series on TV, set in Scotland, especially good. Billy Connolly was sitting behind me, and laughed a good deal.

Tuesday April 27 1982

To the preview showing of 'Visiting Day' at the Granada building in Golden Square. Met June in the foyer with the composer, Kevin Malpass, who's had his hair cut. While it was just the four of us, I made sure of saying 'I want to be the one who says how good it is before it's shown, before everyone perhaps starts tearing it to pieces.' I was expecting the little preview theatre to be full. There was scarcely anyone there. I don't like the lack of pressure. The show seemed to me fairly good. Alas my part was ruined by trick photography, so that most of my lines scarcely registered. A couple of the girl's songs seemed too similar to me. At the drinks and eats after, the pressmen were a bit lukewarm, I thought. I had a nice chat with Kevin M., who seemed more 'me' today, not the cheeky show-off I thought him every now and again at the studio. Of course he's younger than Roy, and so more selfish and casual. Told him he must come to a meal sometime. Roy and I went off for what he probably thinks, is a typical London afternoon for me. Stopped off at the old magazine shop, and found two out of the three Theatre Worlds of the '30s I want. To the picture-framers. To French's and to Maison Bertaux for tea. Then back home to bath and change, and off to see Simon in 'Balthazar'. After to the Colosseo, (shades of the past) Simon was complimentary about 'Visiting Day', thinks the lyrics better than the music, judging from the cassette. Suggested Roy write a play for me and Simon. Great boost for him and me. Also said we'll see if we can get him in with Peggy R. Goodness, Roy has got an eldritch scream of a laugh. But he's mild and booky. I've said he can stay whenever he likes.

Wednesday April 28 1982

Kevin Malpass rang and said 'Can I come round?' I said, 'Yes, come to dinner on Friday'. 'And if the conversation takes off, can I stay the night? As I'm in Finsbury Park, and it's too far to get back.' I said he was cheeky.

Friday April 30 1982 Saturday May 1 1982

I've still got a terrific hangover. Kevin and I sat up till 4.0. He arrived more or less on time, to my surprise. His hair is quite short, like Haircut 100, as I said when he sat down. He was wearing white mainly a white long-sleeved sweat shirt with a sharp angular design on it in red and blue, I think, slightly baggy white trousers, white and blue track shoes, large feet. I looked at him and I thought 'He does look like someone from Top of the Pops', not that I've ever watched it. He pulled off a top layer, baring a very attractive waist and chest the while, and took possession of the sofa. When I sat him down, he said, 'Now, Roy tells me you do a fabulous gin and tonic, which is quite a surprise, because Roy's a beer man.' As dinner unfolded, smoked eel, beef cass. was it? and so on, he said at one point, 'No one's ever given me a dinner like this'. After dinner, he took his shoes off, lay down on the sofa and told me the story of his life, from his first wank and orchestra, to his last girl-friend and 'Visiting Day'. At one point he said, 'I've slept with forty-four women and two men since I was seventeen. Is that too many?' I said, 'How do I know how many is too many? You look all right to me.' He told me about the group, Magenta, he formed at school. How he came to London first at seventeen, and every summer after that, did such things as waiter at the Rock Garden. Of trips to Germany and elsewhere with the M'chester Youth Orchestra, of his father and mother, and two brothers, one older, one younger. Of his long affair with Jenny Sheppard, the daughter of the Bishop of Liverpool! and her desertion of him. In fact, he told me so much that I can't remember a lot of it. But it was certainly a remarkable demonstration of openness, unless of course it's simply a sort of incontinence, and he does it to everyone. I hadn't realised before so acutely how attractive he is. He is also a terrific flirt, looking one in the eye and holding his steady blue gaze that bit longer. But it may be innocence. He stayed the night, and when I went in in the morning he looked so defenceless and charming, I told him so. 'Oh dear' he said thinking I wasn't serious, I expect. He certainly has terrific shameless charm.

Oh, he also said he wouldn't mind an affair with June Howson!

Saturday afternoon I took my hangover to see the film of 'Guys and Dolls'. Still stands up well for most of the way.

Tuesday May 14 1982

Edna arrived at 4.18. Frailer than ever, oh dear. But just herself otherwise.

Wednesday May 5 1982

In the evening John N and I took Edna to September. She loved it, and the camp waiters. Especially the one at the end who plastered himself to my back while helping me on with my overcoat.

Thursday May 6 1982

Tonight to see Giselle at Covent Garden with Edna and John. Neil and Lynda with two friends, took the other seats I'd first bought. Merle Park was off, a pity, but I think the theatre itself would have been worth it for her. I don't know how much longer I can have her.

Saturday May 8 1982

'Visiting Day' went off all right. Edna seemed to enjoy it.

Tuesday May 11 1982

To Rosemary Hanson's for a party. Marquee over garden. Nobody much I knew except nice David Cook. But what is the point of such parties? It just makes me feel empty and insincere to talk to someone for a minute or two, and then go on to someone else. I nearly always leave such a party in a rage or near tears.

Friday May 14 1982

To Covent G. alone. Apres-midi with Brind and Page a perfect thing.

Sunday May 16 1982

To Neil's, who drove me to the Daltons for Sunday lunch. They were sweet and welcoming, and I should think had spent money they couldn't afford. But we didn't eat till 3.0 nor stop till 4.30. Ruined my digestion and my evening.

Monday May 17 1982

To Ron Berglas for lunch. Paolo Dionisotti there. Nice, but needs desolemnizing. Did my best. A widowed cousin of Ron's stayed on, and was amazed I looked at her family photos.

Tuesday May 18 1982

To Sadler's Wells with Simon to see the Pina Bausch Co. One of the most extraordinary and mind-stirring evenings I've ever spent. I kept thinking I was bored, and kept realising I wasn't. It sets its own rhythm. Alas, the other programme did not apparently. It is more nearly and truly indescribable than anything I've ever seen. One detail. The stage was completely covered with fresh turf.

Monday May 24 1982

To Granada, to see a director called Sebastian Graham-Jones about, of all things, 'Coronation St.' I walked straight in and said, 'Well, if you think that I would be convincing as a retired naval petty-officer who fathered a daughter on Betty Driver in 1947, I must say I have to disagree with you.' He laughed a great deal and even more when I said that, if I were to walk into the Rover's Return and say 'Pint of bitter, miss' as the script required, there would be a nation wide riot.

S. G-J. is the father of Gemma's baby, of course. I remembered halfway through his telling me. He is a charmer, and we got on a treat. I stayed an hour. But that in itself was a bit worrying, when I thought it over after. There is something a bit loose about his mouth, and about him.

Simon said this evening he was a broken reed really.

Wednesday May 26 1982

Gerard, dear Gerard, to dinner. Boris Hillier a bore.

Thursday May 22 1982

A disastrous evening. Philip Draycott and I went to see All My Sons at Wyndham's. For a start, the play is a creaking affair, with every plot point signalled, and the acting pedestrian. P. was in a bad mood at the start, we left at the interval and went to Tutton's. In the middle of dinner he started a savage attack on me which was really nasty. It didn't actually upset me much, except for the revelation of the nastiness in him. I wrote him a sharp letter for his sake.

Saturday May 29 1982

Was in earlier on today. Saw Philip drive up and ring the bell. I decided not to answer. He lingered on the doorstep, writing what turned out to be an utterly abject letter. He's not a very securely placed boy.

Thursday June 3 1982

To Victoria Wood's evening at the Duchess. Walked out. Met Simon for supper at Cafe des Amis. Lovely ordinary French cafe. Excellent and cheapish. There is nobody like him. He has such a fine view of our work. I always feel more able to bear my difficulties.

He's going to Paris for the day on Sunday.

Wednesday June 9 1982

Gave David William lunch at Magno's. A cut above The Cafe, very good for lunch, quite smart. David is a cultivated old maidish witty scholarly chap, and very pleasant in small doses. I daresay he thinks exactly the same of me.

Have forgotten to record that Kevin Malpass had asked me, rather vaguely, to look for a room in London for him, as he was coming to live here for good. I also forgot to say how funny he was the other day when he discovered I had no cornflakes. So I wrote him a funny card saying there'd be cornflakes next time. Right, he said.

Today he rang up to say that he was coming up this weekend, and the flat he was going to in Stepney, to share with a trumpet-playing chum had had its front-door kicked in, and £2000 worth of the friend's stereo equipment stolen, so he didn't think he'd go there. 'Anyway, I couldn't, because Phil's left. Have you found anywhere?' I said I hadn't, so he'd better come and stay here. 'I hoped you'd say that', he said, - he's got a good open laugh. But I don't think he'd better stay long. I'm afraid, though charming, he is selfish and casual, and I would guess, not do a hand's turn. One good thing about spoiled young men is that they don't stick at anything long. He'll get bored very quickly here. I'll let him stay a week.

Friday June 11 1982

Lock-smith put a new lock on the back door - £35! Really.

Saturday June 12 1982

Tonight was one of the most riotously funny nights of my life! Kevin Malpass was arriving, so I'd got a nice dinner together, but was prepared, as always with the young, for an arrival hours, even days, later, than stated. Kevin didn't state any time of arrival. I suppose that way he couldn't be late. He rang from Newbury about six, to say he was 75 miles away. I said, they'd just be in time for dinner. 'Oh', he said, 'we've just got a takeaway'. Ah, well, I thought, let him get the takeaway and not disturb my dinner. I suppose, despite having had dinner here once, it had never occurred to him that that's how dinner happened every night, and he had certainly never expected that I'd have a meal ready, after a journey. That's his deprived generation. Travellers get a meal from me. Anyway, just at about eight, dinner-time, the van drove up to the door. Kevin gestured ruefully, curiously a very familiar ruefulness. He's a strange immediate person, and that wave from the car was as from an intimate friend.

All his stuff was in the van, along with the worldly goods of a nice dull friend called Roger, Roger? I don't think they'd loaded it very well, because when they opened the back, all was upside down, papers and cassettes everywhere. Kevin said, 'Oh shit'. They had a drink and a bit of a chat, I sent them off to the van without them knowing, and started my dinner quite ruthlessly. I didn't help at all. I think I have just got far enough now to realise I must go on with my life. They carried everything in, a ghastly lot, I realised, as it piled up in the study. But this generation are so sweet and sunny in my experience, and perhaps I am more tolerant that I was with David G. etc.

Anyway, off they went to Eastbourne, to deliver Roger Thing's things to his mother's(?) house in Eastbourne, with Kevin XX many good-natured and no doubt totally inaccurate guesses about the time of his return.

Sunday June 13 1982

To the Royal Court to see Simon in a ghastly mismanaged reading-type-thing about Larry's last production at the National. God, how sentimental all these wretched subsidised companies are! Like Civil Service office parties. Oh, I hate it. No wonder Larry became their God. His art is so threadbare he has to draw attention to its artifice to be sure people notice how important and difficult it is! He has been the major artistic canker of the theatre. Simon good.

Monday June 14 1982

Was utterly unfair to the prog. last night. Ian McK as Larry was very funny, but the whole thing as misjudged. It would have been so much better with four, rather than twenty-four, actors. Odd that someone as intelligent as Clive Merrison should - no it isn't.

Went to see Bunny; her move worries me, of course. On the other hand what else can I, or she, do? She is frightened here, and is 86, and must be made safe. As nobody else is doing anything, and as she keeps saying she doesn't care what happens as long as she leaves here, and is safe, what else can I do?

Kevin arrived to stay. It seems they lost their way going and coming back from Eastbourne. At Eastbourne, Roger's mother wasn't there, or was when she shouldn't have been, anyway, all was difficult, and it was my old AA book to blame, not Kevin's lack of direction. Yesterday they drove the van back to Manchester, and somehow Kevin managed to 'demolish' a petrol pump, and the van was a 'write-off'. Well, he's a show-off boy, who talks big, so I won't worry about that.

He came down by train, and had to carry two large boxes of clothes from the tube-station. When I got back from Bunny's, he was there and unpacking.

Tuesday June 15 1982

Simon's 33rd birthday. The card I sent him said he'd better be careful as you know who was 33 for the Crucifixion.

Wednesday June 16 1982

Today, dear Neil and I moved Bunny's furniture to Denville Hall. She was in fine spirits, and flirted with Neil, who was perfect with her. We struggled out to Denville, and carried all those poor little pieces along the long corridors of Denville. They have redecorated the room a pretty pale pink, and a maid started to clean the filthy carpet we'd brought as we were leaving.

Thursday June 17 1982

Moved Bunny. Oh, the physical and emotional exhaustion. But Neil was wonderful and a rock. In the evening, hell, had to go to Balthazar again, when all I wanted was bed. Kevin came as well, and we all went to Cafe des Amis, to be joined by Rupert Everett. Well, what a face! Like a Byzanine fresco, but a silly little queen, really. But a nice silly boy as well. I was so tired all seemed askew. Rupert was silly, Neil was dull, even Simon seemed foolish over Rupert. As for Kevin, who was looking good in a frilly white shirt and trousers and a broad red belt, he was just deadly. Nothing to say. I think perhaps he's very very stupid. He's certainly very very ignorant. I could tell tonight a million allusions passed him by.

On the way out, I said to Simon, 'Isn't Kevin deadly?' meaning it literally. I had to pretend to poor Kevin the next day I meant more because he heard - no, I'm too tired.

He is so dim.

Saturday June 19 1982

This afternoon Simon had seats for Nureyev's new ballet 'Manfred' at the Coliseum. I took Kevin. I must say that despite Thursday, I am of course fascinated by Kevin. And he is certainly decorative enough for me to be proud to take him round.

'Manfred' was awful, and Nureyev might have been at a perfunctory rehearsal. I cannot really say that D or I ever admired him wholeheartedly, and now that his immediate physical appeal is going, others are seeing it, too. I think it's possible that he's at his best in rehearsal. He certainly seems very popular and inspirational among dancers. Kevin kept his end up well, and was generous to Nureyev.

Sunday June 20 1982

Roy Mitchell arrived to stay. So that's two of them!

Monday June 21 1982

All I have strength to say is that today there was a solar eclipse. If only there'd been a-young- authors-of-Visiting-Day-eclipse.

Tuesday June 22 1982

Took little Kevin and Roy to 'Noises Off' at the Savoy. Oh dear, that's what Roy wanted to see. I didn't care for it at the Lyric, and I had to see it again. Actually what made the night for me was Kevin. He was overcome with the heat, and stayed outside for a bit (how unlike modern youth) and then came back in and literally fell on to the floor laughing at a very simple farcical moment, when a bit of sticking plaster was waggling on somebody's lip. Roy had told me he was inexperienced theatrically.

Wednesday June 23 1982

Roy went back to Manchester. I had a tough day. Edna came up on her way to Cornwall, stayed at Bailey's Hotel by Gloucester tube station, in order to catch the bus from the bus station opposite to Cornwall the next morning.

Oh dear the hotel is run by Indians or Arabs or something. Upstairs the rooms have that anonymous American efficiency which is at least efficient. The dining-room was very old, dinner being served according to a system passed from an old French waiter to an Arab kitchen- boy who has remembered it years later imperfectly for his grandson. A couple of savouries had strayed into the hors d'oeuvres. A Hong-Kong waitress kept coming and propping fresh napkins on our place between courses, and so on.

Thursday June 24 1982

Took Edna over to bus. Good thing it was warm. Tonight Kevin said ‘let's eat in the garden, take hold of the other end of the kitchen table.’ So we did. I did escalopes a la creme - he loved them. He is a satisfactory person to cook for. He gives pleasantly orgasmic groans at his first mouthfuls. As we sat after dinner, he was smoking with his feet up on the wall. I said, 'Is this what you imagined life in London would be like?' Then, 'Yes', he said largely. He loves my casseroles.

Saturday June 26 1982

David William took me out to dinner at that little Italian restaurant round the corner from the Shaftesbury, after his last exit in the first house of 'Another Country', and before his entrance in the second house! Oh dear, I couldn't. Even as it was, it made me a bit nervous! But it was very pleasant, and he moved me once or twice by his accuracy, and taste. Then I went off to the Duke of York's, where it was Simon's last night, and Kevin had been seeing the play again. Said to me about the nude scene, 'Strange foreskin Simon's got. But he's very attractive, isn't he?'

There was a party after, when I scarcely saw Simon, but had a good clear talk with Susan Littler. I liked her a lot, tho' I can't say I've liked her acting. But I agreed with every half-shade of her comments on the play. I was amused that Kevin was quite shy. He said, 'God, you've got a way with women', simply because I got easily in conversation with them. I said I'd better be a pimp for him.

Evening ended with R. Everett arriving. He, I and Kevin helped Simon clear up his room. R. and S. went off. Kevin and I came home.

Sunday June 27 1982

I've forgotten to say that Kevin has a musical on the stocks, a stage musical. Apparently someone else wrote the music first, and it was a failure. So they sent the script to him, because one of the writers, David? is with the same agent, and 'I wrote five numbers off the top of my head, and they were knocked out' and here he is.

He's playing it over to Robert Fox, no less, of whom, of course, he's never heard. (I've forgotten to say that he reduced Simon and me to ecstasy by revealing that he genuinely didn't know who Peter Hall was.) And he wants me to sing in it! And I'm going to. I must be mad. Of course part of the charm of doing it is that he has no idea of the presumption in asking someone like me to do something like this. That's where his cheek becomes courage.

So we rehearsed at 5.0. I was astounded. He is utterly certain, firm, authoritative, completely professional. His manuscripts in the midst of chaos, are as printed music.

Monday June 28 1982

Today after lunch, he looked at the fruit bowl and said, 'Angus, I don't know why you keep buying all that fruit - I don't really like fruit very much.'

'Well, Kevin,' I said...

Really, he might be Marie Antoinette. We rehearsed again today. He was quite hard, as a pro should be to get results. He only has a little electric keyboard, which kept going wrong. I don't think he's as good with wires and plugs as he presents himself. He says he must have a piano before the audition on Thursday. I asked the Russian man on the corner, and got sent away with a flea sharply pushed into my ear. Then I thought of the Barringtons. He goes there tomorrow.

Tuesday June 19 1982

Claire Moore, the leading girl in 'Visiting Day', came to stay, for the audition. She arrived at 8.30 a.m.!! Really the young are odd. Of course, Kevin wasn't up. So I chatted and gave her tea. She's staying with a cousin or something, and he dropped her here on his way to work. I suppose Kevin didn't know she was coming that early. Not that he'd have been up. Despite the good rehearsals, I have to register that he never gets up before eleven, he has cooked one meal leaving the kitchen as if a bomb had hit it, often eats at odd times, and has not once offered to do any shopping. Seems to watch me staggering home with four heavy shopping bags with complete equanimity often actually from his bed, through the basement window.

Wednesday June 30 1982

To Wigmore Studios to rehearse 'Wayne’s Dad'. The comparative luxury and grandeur of the ground floor, with its Bosendorfers and Steinways, makes the rehearsal-rooms all the more squalid by comparison. And when I say squalid, I mean broken linoleum, ledges thick with dirt, fireplaces full of old rubbish, orange-skins and so on, one broken chair, not to mention such a poor piano that Kevin was nearly in despair. The third singer was Steven Mann from Visiting Day a neat-featured careful wary young man. Efficient. Oh Claire's voice, marvellous. And Kevin's authority is absolute. When I say that I felt thoroughly rehearsed, I need say no more. For 21 that is remarkable.

Thursday July 1 1982

I got up thinking good heavens, I'm doing a demo for a rock musical. What am I thinking of? But I soon forgot that when I saw how nervous Kevin was. I think he was sick after breakfast, and he was certainly sick in the pub after wolfing a sausage and some baked beans. Then he and I went back to the studio, leaving the others with the authors, David Fisher, fat and pompous, and Frank Hilton, lean, rangy, fun - though both second-rate, judging by the script and lyrics, tho' it's not finished. He sat down on the floor with his back against the wall, on the landing outside the rooms; he kept coughing and retching, going once to the loo. We go to the room, and rehearsed a bit more while waiting. Suddenly he was sick a bit more out of the window. His agent, Patricia McNaughton, who is very high-powered - she has Lloyd-Webber and Rice - hadn't arrived, when a beautifully dressed good-looking young man, came rather shyly round the door. Rather absurdly, as I was the only one who'd met him - for it was Robert Fox - I had to introduce him. Kevin surprised me again - he introduced everyone else and to P.M. when she arrived, with complete composure. He began the first no. which he mainly sings as well as plays, with no apparent nervousness. To cut a long story short, it seems RF liked the music, but not the book. Good for him. Plans are still to try it at the Half-Moon. Robert is certainly v. different from the hippy we met at Eaton Square ten years ago.

Roy M. came to stay and was a good relaxation to have someone outside to tell. I was much struck by Kevin today, he showed the mettle and talent that has got him this far. His sitting on that landing floor. Poor little boy.

Friday July 2 1982

Kevin and Roy to 'Not Quite Jerusalem' and party afterwards. Kevin had to come out again for a bit because of the heat.

Saturday July 3 1982

Roy away. Simon flying to the States. I hate it when he's away, and specially so this time, as I feel restless and empty. How odd that I have two wild-looking young men staying here. Oh, Kevin's girlfriend has arrived, and they've gone off, to Kew Gardens, among other places. She was a fellow student, is a 'brilliant' classical pianist, is tall, as tall as Kevin, and therefore looks taller. Statuesque, a bit of a Nordic goddess, with a great mane of blonde hair. A little dizzy, but I liked her at once.

They came back for dinner and we had a pleasant evening. He told me they'd made love in K. Gardens. Does he tell everyone these things? There is something about him that moves me deeply - of course, there's lust, he's a very attractive boy, but I don't know, there's much more to it.

Monday July 5 1982

Very lazy humid weather. Every morning just open all the doors and windows.

Sue went home today. Kevin went to One Mo' Time with Sue's family. They had a picnic in Green Park, with a 'wonderful' bottle of wine.

Tuesday July 6 1982

Kevin had an interview with Cameron Macintosh, played records and chatted. Liked him!! C.M. lent him a lot of odd records, 'The Sound of Music', 'South Pacific' and so on. Curious. Only explanation I can think of is that he thinks Kevin wants a grounding.

I have just realised that I am writing about little else but Kevin. Of course I'm out of work, and have nothing else to be interested in, and he is living with me. But but but.

Wednesday July 7 1982

Steve Mann and Ron Berglas coming to dinner - still very humid, not to say hot. Kevin said 'Couldn't we have dinner in the garden again?' This time he persuaded me to take the real dinner-table onto the raised bit of the garden. I put a big white cloth on in case. It was a huge success and glamorous in the extreme. Except that Steven and Ron had been in a 'Romeo and Juliet' and clashed swords badly!

He said to me the other day, 'You know, you're the person I most enjoy having a meal with .'

Thursday July 8 1982

It's Friday afternoon and I don't know quite where I am. After we go back last night, I went out again and walked about till about three, before I could possibly have gone to bed.

Simon called K. an 'homme fatale. I know what he means. But of course he's seeing it only in gay terms. Yes, I would like to sleep with Kevin, but oh oh there's so so much more. And last night burst my whole life wide open. It started on the way to the tube. He said 'Two things. (a phrase he'd got from me.) The bad ones first, your hair-stuff and you aftershave don't go together at all. And your sunglasses are the wrong shape for your face entirely. But that shirt is great, one of your best.' I wasn't cross, just stirred up by such personal comments. I realised I'd had a shock, but answered as usual, 'That's made my day' or something. 'I don't do this sort of thing for everyone, you know.' 'I'm glad' I said. On the Angel station, (we were going to Sadler's Wells, to the Northern Theatre Ballet) I dropped the sunglasses in one of the waste bins. I was surprised myself, and felt a stirring of fear that I had reacted so strongly. The first ballet was 'Les Sylphides' of which K. had never heard. It was a fairly competent routine perf., but then competence and routine are not what 'Sylphides' is about. He came out into the sunshine, lighting a cigarette with fingers shaking with rage, and, in a loud Liverpool snarl, the ballet audience reeling back in horror, 'That is the biggest load of romantic crap I have ever seen in my whole life.'

Fortunately the other two ballets were more adventurous, and better performed, so I don't think the evening wasn't a complete artistic loss. We went to a bistro at St. John's Wood that he'd liked when? The wife of the owner came up with the menu and chatted just too long. I dismissed her with 'But sweet of you to ask', without her noticing that she'd been dismissed. 'You did do that well', he said, with real admiration. We talked well about the ballet, the food came. He's bright, brighter than I realised at first, but has been given by something or somebody, a block to academic or intellectual approaches. And he's so ignorant of - almost everything except music. And even in that - But there is a sparky fun and go and courage about him. I was thinking my way carefully through an answer, trying to explain as truthfully and clearly as I could the apparatus of criticism. He suddenly said, 'What a lovely father you'd be!' I can't remember when I've come so near to breaking down completely. The tears did come, but I thought I'd have to go out. Finally, 'I wish you wouldn't say such things in public'. He stammered apologies, but of course he had struck straight through to the centre of my heart. And I'm in a turmoil.

I walked for hours, trying to get calmer, oh, it's so difficult. It's not lust, well, it is, but what can you say?

Friday July 9 1982

Myles came to dinner. He and K. got on very well, and Myles gave him some good advice, with that obvious disinterested sincerity which is unmistakable, even to K. Tho' perhaps K. is a better judge of character than I think. He, Myles, was good about publishers. Oh, god, I can recognize the familiar emptiness and yearning and jealousy and panic, all muddled up with tenderness, and good noble resolves.

Saturday July 10 1982

Cameron Macintosh gave K. free tickets for 'Song and Dance' at the Palace. 'My treat, for once' said K.

I have told him I'll buy him a piano. He certainly can melt, - a flirt he may be, but there is something genuine in him, too. Oh, what hell physical attraction is, how it muddles up things when it's only on one side. Because there is so much else.

And anyway what does he think and feel? He must need me in some way.

To 'Song and Dance'. I was staggered that it was half-full, and that K was the youngest person there by about twenty years. The song part I thought pretty awful. Marti Webb is an understudy by nature and has a voice like a steel klaxon. I expect she gives no trouble. The dance part was mildly entertaining, v. well danced, but not special. Anyway, Wayne Sleep worries me.

We went for a drink among the fans at the pub at the corner. K. was going to a 'piss-up' at Phil Lawrence's. I left him, aching with envy of all those people who were going to be in the same room with him tonight.

Sunday July 11 1982

K. came back at 11.0, very early. Must have got up at 9.30, to get from Crouch End. Was feeling pretty awful. Sick over breakfast. Said he was very hungover, coughed (he has a smoker's rather chokey cough) and was suddenly spouting sick which he caught in one hand after another, as he rushed towards Phil's sink. 'I honked up my ring' as he put it. He retired to bed. Ah youth, youth! He was up three hours or so later, and ate a large indigestible fry-up.

Sue rang up later on about possible pianos, and, I don't quite know why, he said, 'Yes, Angus is here watching the World Cup.' Possibly she was talking dirty and he wanted to stop her.

Yes, I must gloomily reflect he is taking up more and more of my life.

Monday July 12 1982

K. to see David Fisher, author of stage musical at 12.0.

Tuesday July 13 1982

Roy's b'day, fancy, 2 days before.

K. went to see Patricia McNaughton. She was not so encouraging this time, or rather, to my eye, she didn't promise him instant stardom. He was raging away with a flushed sulky smouldering face, and said yet again if he hadn't got something really good, by August, he would go back to Manchester. I turned on him eventually and said, 'You little yellow worm, you will stay and you will persevere, and stop whining.'

Wednesday July 14 1982

To sign on. Oh god, the depression. I can't go back to Manchester.

Took K. to Barnum in the evening. Remarkable display of vitality by Michael Crawford, not to say frenetic. The curtain call was positively painful in its craving to be liked. Still it was interesting for K. to see how a musical can be a hit and run without anything that could be called a score. In the bar in the interval I watched him threading his way back towards me, and I thought, 'If he were really my son.' Surely it isn't all ignoble and mean and selfish. We went on to the Cafe des Amis, sitting out on the pavement as it was v. hot and heavy. Bastille Day, so two dear middle-aged Frenchmen, real ones, were playing concertinas just by us. At midnight, everyone stood up and many sang the Marseillaise.

Thursday July 15 1982

To Paulo's taken by John, Simon Neil and Lynda. V. drunk. K. helped me home. It's no use I am deeply in love with love, aren't I?

Friday July 16 1982

I was very drunk last night. But it's true, but, but. Oh, I am so troubled that it just seems an old queen falling for a young man, who is a flirt and on the make. But that's not how it is. I am not an old queen, and K. is not on the make. I'm sick of gay labels. I've always wanted to sleep with anyone I loved, of any age or sex almost, because I've got a cock like that. After all, it says something about me that, at 56, I still wank every day sometimes twice. But I feel so infinitely more for him, so much more that I am hoping desperately to stop myself making a pass at him, as that moment could make him discredit all the rest of me, which is, so infinitely more. And more for him.

He went to Cameron's offices for scores of more strange old-fashioned musicals, to Wandsworth to look at pianos, and to pick up my present, yesterday afternoon. Tonight he was going round to Neil's. I called, 'Bring some tonic up'. 'No, I don't want a drink.' M.A. again.

Saturday July 17 1982

Strange K. going to Neil's the next night after seeing him. Wonder if he smokes pot like Neil. I daresay. Dear little things, young people, thinking one doesn't know. What wonderful friends Neil and Lynda have been. To Philip Draycott's tonight. Took K. Very good for him to get about. I forgot to record that, drunk as I was on Thur. I said to him on my way upstairs, 'I hope you won't think I'm being patronising, but I must tell you, seeing you out in society, as it were, what charming manners you have.' Because he has, considerate, self-possessed, able to wait and listen, perfect, in fact. And yet sometimes he can be so awkward, jeering, silly, brash, defiant, aggressive in a word, defensive and provincial, and that worst sort, northern defensiveness. It was really funny when he was genuinely cross with me because I'd never been to the Royal Northern College of Music.! And because I only know the segment of M'chester bounded by the Midland, the Terrazza, St Ann's Square, Granada and Kendal Milne.

At Philip's, there was a lovely big generous woman Sarah something, who is a very famous eye- surgeon at Moorfields, and gave me a big tonguey kiss for some time, after I said 'at my advanced age.' It is interesting that so many people cannot bear one to refer to middle or old age. And certainly they never notice my light tone. K. fancies her quite a lot. Older women eh? Well, of course, June. Patricia McN's on holiday for a fortnight oh dear.

Monday July 19 1982

To the piano shop in West Hampstead where K. had found a piano he could bear at a price that I could bear. Pleasant young man. K. tried piano over with that rather hard beady stare that is, I think, half excitement and half shyness. I think he's thrilled I'm buying it really.

In the evening to Jonathan Courage. I can't quite decide about him. Whether he's a little tin pot philosopher or a big generous characer. Myles was there in the courtyard of Iverna Court, at gin and t time, like an extraordinary manifestation. Came up and talked for a bit, mild, detached, as always. Both of them gave me some comfort, as I am in great agony a lot of the time.

I wasn't going to put it down, but I must. We went to see a silly three-D film, and, just after dinner, I did give way to an overwhelming impulse, and said I wanted to sleep with him. He was very good about it, responding with a pretty good version of 'It would spoil our friendship'. Now I am not ashamed of feeling the attraction (and of course he cannot help being v. responsive, because sex is coming out of his ears). In addition, a lot of rubbish is talked about sex. I shall be surprised if he doesn't sleep with another man before he's finished. But, as an older wiser man, I have a duty to look after him, and I know perfectly well that an overt sexual relationship is not what he wants or needs from me. (Even in the unlikely event of my physical repulsiveness being overcome!) I went and prayed, with many tears, that I hadn't ruined everything.

Tuesday July 20 1982

Sally Anne Law and dear Richard Huw came to dinner, in their different ways a decorative pair. Though, like K. and Sue, I can't see them as a couple. Richard certainly likes a dominating woman, but I think she does too much for him, and accentuates his natural vanity? I meant laziness. She's lively and brave and I like her. But her red hair and that very white slightly freckly skin will be a drawback. But I rather admire her.

Wednesday July 21 1982

K. off to play Robert Walker Wayne's Dad. Seemed to go off all right - he didn't say much.

In the evening we went to the Half Moon to see the current production 'Trafford Tanzi', a play in which the action is expressed in a series of boxing matches. I hated it, mainly because it so so slow. And when the egregious Dean Rebel ruffled what's left of my hair on his exit, that finished me. It will show how strong my feeling was, that I left Kevin at the interval, and came home without him! He disliked it too.

Thursday July 22 1982

K. was going to Liverpool by coach! Must've taken him hours. What does he do on a long journey? As he doesn't read. Because he has scarcely read anything, and never reads now. Ironic that his bedroom should be entirely lined with books. Going to get his car, and see about his other car! Which is a write-off.

Sadly his piano arrived ten minutes after he'd left. I'd love him to have been here to see it arrive. He has a very special way of showing pleasure. His mmm! as takes his first mouthful repays you for any trouble.

Oh god, I miss him so much. Elaine Donnelly came to dinner and distracted me. I admire her discipline and her independence, but it's beginning to show in her face, pretty tho' she still is. I found I wasn't surprised to find that Mike Bradwell had left her. I realised, as the evening went on, - I met her for a coffee at the Lyric last week - that I could start an affair with her easily. But no, it's no use - I don't want a woman. I seem to have given all that to D. Perhaps I am returning to that unfinished time in my youth. Certainly my twenty-two years with D. were the most profound experience of my life, encompassing, as it did, endless violent sex, endless wild laughter, complete intellectual sympathy, complete union on every level, I can't face with any interest, any diluting it. No, my heart, or what's left of it, is helplessly lost to what, - a gangling boy with melting blue eyes and large feet. What is he? I know what he must become - a son.

Friday July 23 1982

K. still away. I walked round and round the house crying from time to time, I missed him so much. Why do we have this torture placed on us? Just to want him to be here, near me so that I can see he's all right.

I have never been able to disentangle the sexual from my emotions anyway.

To see 'The Chosen', not a wise choice. About fathers and sons not getting on, and then making it up. In my state, floods again.

Saturday July 24 1982

Roy arrived to stay. He is a dear, mild and gentle and superficially much more sympathetic to me than K. After all, we talk books, swop quotes, chase after allusion, have literary jokes and so on. And of course an outsider would say that that I am simply infatuated with K. But that is not so, or rather it is not more than ten per cent of the story. For, despite all the agony of division from him by distance or my own stupid jealousy, or his ignorance or our differences of taste, nevertheless, in the rare intervals when I can be rational (which I hope will get more frequent) I know that there is a bond of sympathy between us, I am sure there is something important there. Such as I shall never have with Roy, dear tho' he is. We went off to wildest Streatham to lunch with my electrician and plumber, Robert Duddell. Nice top flat with sensational long views. A rather flat affair. Robert not a good host, didn't talk much, and only went out to buy the lunch after we arrived. Roy bore it well. He wreaked his revenge in the evening by taking me to a fearful entertainment at the Shaw Theatre, 'From Bad to Worse'. It was organized by a contemporary of Roy's, a curiously old-fashioned figure in a white dinner-jacket, as if he were trying on the character of a fifties impresario.

Oh dear, it was awful.

Thursday July 27 1982

Roy went back today. Thank god he's been here. If someone is there, I can manage some semblance of ordinary life by being distracted. Even so, after any experience, a cinema, closing the bedroom door behind etc., the tears come. I think he was going to M'chester yesterday to see June, then to the recording studio at Badminton. (He is an extraordinary boy - staying down in Badminton at Sue Bird's house he met a local business-man, got chatting, found out the man wanted to build a recording-studio in his barn, but didn't know what equipment to order. Kevin said he would order it and install it, Keith said in return K. could have a sort of half-share in it and always use it. Amazing. And I suppose they are friends, but in a rather remote way. He does K's income-tax, but K. never talks about him much.)

The man came to install the holland blinds in the drawing-room. Very sweet man, who was rather defeated and polite. They are cream, with a ecru lace edge. But really practical and necessary. Off to the Royal Ballet School to Giselle. Excellent boy and girl, whole thing rather fresher than the second co.

Wednesday July 28 1982

K. rang about 1.0. He's coming back tomorrow. Went out in the car with Sue, hadn't gone far when, can he have said all, the tyres blew. Might have been very dangerous. A quiver of triumph came, in his voice, when he said that June had made him musical director of a seven- part series about a recording-studio. This is the series based on an idea of his.

Thursday July 29 1982

He didn't come or ring. I spent about five hours walking between the front window and the telephone. Again thank god I was going to the R. Ballet School again, with Neil and Lynda. Slightly disappointing prog. but anything would be pleasant to me with the Dicksons. They came back to supper. And I cried over the sink after they'd gone.

Friday July 30 1982

I kept a space at the front with two dustbins. It's a blue-green '50s sharp-cornered car. He tumbled in, and said, 'Ooh, look, piano' and sat down and played.

And everything was made worthwhile.

This evening, after dinner, he took me in the car to a pub on Hammersmith riverside. That's a thing I've never done in my life. We sat at an outside table, and he drank beer. I had whisky with beer as a chaser. He drew me out about my career, why I didn't get more work and so on. He did all without upsetting me or putting a foot wrong. I can't believe it. I never let anyone talk about my career for more than a sentence. I am astounded. He really minds.

Saturday July 31 1982

We had a talk about his finances. He's quite a bit overdrawn, and since his visit to the north, it's much worse. 'I've been a naughty boy. I went round cashing £50 cheques at three or four banks to pay for the car, which was much more than I thought.' You suddenly saw how his confident manner is only, well, not exactly false, but he is only a youngster, and looked really worried. I lent him £350 to tide him over, and get him out of the red. Now he won't have to pay interest, but he won't be tempted to spend what he hasn't got. But oh what I felt when I told him. It excited and moved me to a degree that surprised even me. I suddenly saw how much he can affect me. Oh God.

Sunday August 1 1982

K. had asked Phil Lawrence round, the trumpet-player he might have shared the flat with. I was going to the Q. Elizabeth Hall to see Ann in her Viennese evening, which was a good thing, as it turned out. Phil. L. is medium height, heavily built, thick blunt features, little moustache, strong Liverpool accent. K. is right, he has an astonishing gift of verbal facility in metaphor and simile, it really does pour out. But he and K. together were like silly school boys, going on and on being only jokey, as silly boys do to shut out an adult world that disconcerts them. I was glad to go after an hour or so. I must confess I hated to see K. sensitive, considerate K. (sometimes) being one of the Liverpool lads. I felt them sitting on the balcony, swapping obscenities and jokes as if they were in a Liverpool pub. I don't know what the neighbours thought. It was a very hot humid night - my wrists were all soggy and peeling. On the tube, three young Americans asked me the way to Elephant and Castle. I thought it was a strange destination for a tourist. It turned out they were going to Ann's concert! So I took the three dreary young things round to see her briefly. The concert was rather second-rate. Saw Liane Aukin for a drink - as good-looking as ever. Shall I - no.

When I got back, they were still on the balcony, Phil had sat through his deck-chair, and broken one of the wrought-iron panels off the balcony. I kept my temper with the oaf with difficulty. I hope K. is not going to be one of those who behaves like whoever he's with! An argument for spending more time with me!

Monday August 2 1982 2.0. a.m.

A black day. K. rang June Howson about 6.30, and went like a thunder cloud. I hadn't seen him like this before, his face a bit red, a furious scowl. He wouldn't tell me what was the matter, which agonised me, but perhaps it was because I don't know. He ate his dinner, which was chicken casserole. Said 'Thanks, Angus.' I said 'I'm so sorry' and went to touch him, and he gave me a great bared teeth grin, meeting 'Keep off.' Oh, it nearly killed me. He said, 'I'm going out. See you later.' He went straight out, and drove straight off, very fast. There is something awful about washing-up and crying at the same time. I haven't known him long enough to be sure what to say or do, and it's frightful to think of him unhappy and not knowing what it is. It's just generally the insecurity that is so awful for me. I've drunk. And it's late, and I jump at every possible click of the gate.

4.0 ish. He's in. There's the car after I dried.

Tuesday August 3 1982

When he got up eventually he told me what it all was. June had told him that he couldn't be the musical director. Somebody was against him. When he left last night in such a black mood, he went to 'Ruby' an oboist friend in Tooting, who, I think, shares the house with some others. He taught them a card game he's fond of called Black Bitch (ugh!), then drove back later, having bought some drink - he didn't tell them what - sat by the river, and drank it, listened to the radio till 3.30.

He went off to see a writer called Bob Mason who's writing the series.

Wednesday August 4 §982

Prim came to dinner tonight; K. left us after dinner, having completely charmed her. And came back when she was leaving, went to her, kissed her and said, 'Goodbye, Prim'. He is almost as without inhibition of that kind as it is possible to be.

Thursday August 5 1982

Oh, a mixed day. Pain and acute pleasure, pleasure and acute pain.

Tonight was the really special treat - for me as well as for him, as it turned out. I'd got tickets for the Paris Opera Ballet at the Garden, a theatre he'd never been in, and a company and ballet I'd never seen. Music partly by Ligety, one of his fascinations, because of 2001. So I thought he'll dress up, and we'll have this arranged pleasure, me in my suit, he respectably dressed for the first time.

I suppose I should have known that it couldn't happen as I'd imagined. Tho' I don't know that he did any of it on purpose. He had lunch at Joe Allen's with part of the Granada team on the series, which confirmed in his mind the appointment. He sprang on me in the morning, that he was going down to Badminton tonight, so could we have a meal before, not after the show? Oh god, that ruined the evening for me for a start. No, it didn't but it did.

So I changed the booking at Magno's Brasserie in Long Acre to a pre-theatre supper - for Covent Garden!! Doesn't the little creep know that going to the Garden is an occasion before which everything goes down? He turned up unshaved wearing the clothes he wore on his first time here, only grubby? I hated him for a moment. Then I pulled back and thought I've got to get through this. And went on. So I tried it another way, because I had a great terrible need, knowing he was going to Badminton. I said, 'I want to ask you a favour. When you go off on these jaunts, would you not say you were coming and then not come, as that worries me so much.' (let alone the bother with wasted food and so on, tho' I didn't mention that.) It was the worry last week that he'd had a crash. He promised. He said, 'Now I'm coming back on Monday. This the B'minton no.' That was a good bit of the talk. It made me more expansive. I was in my suit, and all grand, so I thought I'd describe where I'd bought it, and say about Jermyn St. shops and so on. I wished I could have bitten my tongue out. His face went red, and a bit puffy, he was furious at the suggestion that there was a best place to buy shirts, etc. etc. At least I didn't answer him in his own envious bigoted ignorant and narrow coin. He has not spoken of his home, but I suddenly saw what small minded people he must come from.

We went to the theatre. Of course he looked awful and I was grateful I didn't meet anybody I knew. How could he not make more effort.

So we walked into the Garden. He paid the greatest tribute his crippled dumb generation can pay. 'Oh shit' he said, as he had at his upset removal van. Let me turn to the ballet. the Dream. Ah. Hurdy-gurdy turn of the century American music-hall tunes for the mechanicals. Electronic Ligety for the fairies. Mendelssohn for the court and lovers. The settings and clothes were utterly perfect, ravishing as suddenly you feel, each time, only the French can make them.

The whole thing took me by the throat and by surprise and by storm. The fairies, the first act court clothes - In the interval, I said 'Are you enjoying it at all?' He said, 'Just a bit.' He was red again, and I thought for a minute he was cross again, but I saw he was quite swept away and I veered round again. It was all perfection. Oh yes yes he saw it all and was really moved. We came out in a haze, where I'd forgotten we weren't going to have a lovely meal to finish it off. Suddenly there was Phil Lawrence coming out of the Domingo pub. He asked if we'd enjoyed it, we both said it was wonderful. Phil L. said something jeering and awful and nasty in answer to my expression of real thrilled enthusiasm. Kevin thanked me with a sudden earnest warmth I'd never seen in him before - it did get over to me that it had had a deep effect on him.

But in a second they'd got into the car to drive to Badminton.

I walked numbly to the tube station amid the rain of the evening I'd planned to be so special. I expect K would say well the ballet was special, that's all that counts. And I feel utterly suicidal and alone. Anyway, I'll never take him out again. It's just unbearable and not worth it.

Friday August 6 1982

To Drury Lane to see 'The Pirates of Penzance' jazzed up very successfully by Joe Papp, the American who runs that theatre in Central Park. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I thought Pamela Stephenson very funny, and singing what is after all quite testing music far better than one has any right to expect. Tim Curry deliciously funny as the Pirate King and Michael Praed as Frederick playing with all the verve and dash of a first night. Great fun. Still very hot.

Saturday August 7 1982

Went to see 'Missing!' Jack Lemmon searching against all odds to find his son in a iron curtain country. Another mistake. I walked home, and through Brompton Cemetery, down one of the side walks, where I could cry in freedom.

It it's like this when he's away for three days, well.

Sunday August 8 1982

He rang at about Quarter to nine, saying, 'Just to let you know I'm not coming back tonight.' 'Well', I said, 'That is sweet of you, but I never thought you were, you said Monday.' He said, 'Oh, shit'. I said 'Did June get you?' 'Yes', he said, 'The car’s coming up, I must go.' Dear little boy. He said he was coming back first thing tomorrow. Starting when? What a life. His, I mean.

June had rung at 10.0 and told me David Carson didn't want K. A long talk. Oh oh.

Monday August 9 1982

K arrived back 12.0ish. He rang June for a long time, down in the kitchen. I could tell he had made up his mind to it, and he rang her and got the job back.

This is one of the days of his life. Real courage.

An extraordinary creature came to stay, Azdar?, Joe Cavanagh's girl-friend. Very vague as if she was drugged. I daresay she was! She had come up for an audition and seemed to have made no preparation, nor even to know what was wanted, or where it was. He brought her in for dinner, and they went off to Phil Lawrence's b'day party. I do tell them not to bother with the washing- up, but not him. He doesn't offer enough help, it's no use pretending.

He brought her back to sleep here, but of course only to sleep. I don't think he would sleep with a real friend's girl, not while it was still really on,- that still seems to be a rule!

Tuesday August 10 1982

Of course he didn't get up to deal with her. I had to get her breakfast. I suppose he would say she wouldn't expect either of us to get up. But he knows perfectly well that I couldn't not, so he must take that into account. But will he? Will he hell? Why can he be so nice sometimes?

In the afternoon he went off to see Anthony Minghella and Bob Mason, the authors of the new series.

Roy arrived to stay. A pleasant change, as he seems so much aware of what I'm like, and what I dislike. In the evening to a fairly successful play at the Theatre Upstairs. Set on a beach, with tons of real sand, it had a slight theatrical coup, in a dead body rising from underneath the sand (I spotted the air pipe) some male nudity and an excellent perf. from Sheila Burrell.

He showed me the first two scripts. Oh dear, oh god, they are AWFUL. I am amazed at June. the situations are idiotic, the characters are not set-up, disaster. I had to say so. He said I hadn't understood the studio jokes, but was good about it. What jokes?

Wednesday August 11 1982 Thursday August 12 1982

Wednesday was a pretty grim - well, evening. It was K's first day of auditions at Wigmore Studios. So, from being on the dole on Monday, there he was auditioning the likes of Michael Feast, Rupert Everett, and Robert Stephens. Tho' actually he was asked to leave the room for Robert's, as it wasn't a musical one. He's met, and knows of, so few actors, it's unbelievable.

When he got back, he was exhausted, and almost dozed off half-way through dinner with Roy. 'Why am I so tired?' he said. I explained that auditions are full of emotional pressure. Just facing 20 or 25 very nervous people is tiring, let alone that yr professional reputation may depend on which you choose. And the degree of attention, too.

He'd asked a carpenter from Badminton to stay, on his way to Spain. Of course K went to bed, leaving me to meet him at midnight. He had to bed down in the drawing-room. He and Roy were up at about 5.30 to go to Spain. Guess who got up to get their breakfast. Well, he has got more auditions today. I've just come back from a heavenly restful evening with John N. which has saved my reason.

Friday August 13 1982

To the BBC in the morning for a fitting for 'Dr Who'. Delightful wardrobe girl, Amy Roberts, a reader. Must chat to her again. Married and lives near here.

He fills my whole day. I thought of him all day at the auditions, and then going to see Diana Stainforth with whom he's writing a science-fiction musical. (That resulted from a day a few weeks ago when he had been feeling useless and low the day before. He'd said crossly he wasn't used to a life like this, with no friends dropping in. So the next day he said, 'It's going to be ideas day today and went to his room and wrote the synopsis of a science fiction musical called 'Time is Running Out.' But in the end he didn't go to her. After the auditions were over, he went a wine-bar and got pissed with Sebastian Graham-Jones who, oddly enough, is one of the directors of the series. He arrived home about nine. He didn't seem so drunk at first, but when he lay on the sofa in his room, cuddling his toy panda, and would only talk to me through it, I realised. 'Panda', he whispered in its ear with frightful archness ,'Angus says "Do we want anything to eat?"' And so on. Finally I began to laugh so much I had to leave him to fall into a stupor. He is the dearest boy.

Saturday August 14 1982

He went to see Diana Stainforth this afternoon. He gave a bravura display of key-losing before he finally got out. He searched his room like a burglar, getting crosser and crosser. Finally he remembered he had a spare set - it was his car-keys, - and got ready to go out,- then he lost the spare set. I heard a real howl of anguish and I went to look, too. Although I was sympathetic to a point, his rage at himself was so comic I had a hard job keeping a straight face. Eventually a hot flushed Kevin left. Almost at once I found his keys under his wireless alarm. 'I have looked everywhere'.

I went out with Simon, and remember not a thing about it because of Kevin, and wanting to tell S about it.

But oh what comfort he gives me.

Don't know what K. did tonight. He's not in yet. I can't write of the pain because I'm ashamed of it.

Sunday August 15 1982

And then suddenly there comes a day when he is so sunny and gentle, and 'with me' that nothing else seems worth doing but forging our friendship and looking after him. It's been a beautiful day - all the time he's been here, I seem to have got up, and just opened all the doors and windows. We didn't do anything, he worked on his music, I on my play, then I started on the dinner. He loves my cooking. The joint was in, and I was doing the vegetables, while my bath was running. He was in the drawing-room watching TV. He came specially down for a pee walked thro' the greenhouse, put his head round the door, and said, 'Are we going to have gravy?' I look round, quite expecting to see a little boy of 7 tugging at my hand, and saying, 'Daddy, can we.... The whole day was a revelation to me of what our relationship can, and must, be. If only I can keep my head.

Tomorrow to M'chester for my film. He comes up while I'm there - what luck - I can't believe it.

Monday August 16 1982

10.20 p.m. Film call. 6.00. Midland Manchester.

I'd ordered a large Scotch. Waiter arrived at the same moment as two giggly girls 'Where is room 524?' I took them to it, and hope it made them feel all right - they seemed cowed.

Walked back and was overwhelmed by longing just for him to be here here here so that I could know and see that he was all right. I walked up and down crying in tortures for a long time.

Tuesday August 17 1982

Filming 'Jewel in the Crown'. Like Tim Pigott-Smith and that big-jawed chap. Hate Christopher Morahan who nearly reduced a little character-actress to tears, just because she was already frightened.

Finished the day, as every filming day I've ever done, in an exhausted foot-sore tearful rage.

Wednesday August 16 1982 Midland still 1.0 a.m.

I must pull myself out of my drunken stupor and describe - I'll start again. It is interesting how a friendship can take a leap forward, in a suddenly unfamiliar terrain. As we walked away from the hotel to dinner, he said, 'What are you doing in Manchester? You're with me in London, not Manchester.' I saw how very strange it was for him, much more so than for me. Manchester is all he's known for a long time.

How did I spend the day waiting for him? I don't know. By 6.45 I was in the big lounge looking at the doors. It was to be his first stay in the Midland, which he'd always wanted to stay in as a symbol. I don't think he'd like it much - he won't see the good bits from the past for the sleaze of the present. There he was, pushing insolently but actually rather self-consciously in. He registered, and told me in the lift that he has a budget to administer as music director of £70,000 and that his agent is asking £14,000 for him. We had a long drink - I heard about Tuesday night, when Phil Lawrence came round with his dreary girlfriend, and stayed the night in my bed. Or the girlfriend did - I don't know.

So off we went to the Terrazza, thrown into closer friendship by the change of circumstances. Or rather in a different place, well-known to both of us, we suddenly saw our friendship more clearly. He didn't know the T. was there! He told me everything. His contract is settled for what he does, but not for what he's paid.

But first, I said, re-cap. On Monday night, he took the 33 year old secretary Linn at Granada Golden Sq. offices out. I knew he's fancied her like mad. 'She looked really fit'. The pictures were her suggestion. But nothing could more mark the curious veins of immaturity in his character, than of his choice of film to take a 33 year old possible lover for their first date, to 'Star Trek 2'!! He didn't want them to make love. She lives with a rock musician, they've got a house etc. etc.' K. is still with Sue, really. Beforehand, they went to St. James Park, 'with your last bottle of white wine, and two of your glasses'. They didn't even kiss. I think she was pretty amazed that a youngster like Kevin could be so romantic - and organized. 'She just kept looking' he said, 'with that stare you recommended to me, and I couldn't get the Malpass stare going at all.' They were both stirred up, but it was left. He certainly has been more moved than I've seen him. But that may be because she is inaccessible. I would also guess that she's fairly commonplace. Oh let him find someone he likes as well as fancies. The trouble is, I'm not sure whether it's really her, or just this incredible moment in his life, when he is intoxicated with a sudden extraordinary success, which can upset anyone's judgment. He is, after all, at the edge of an experience which will certainly, one way or another, change his whole life. I mean the series, of course. I tried to say this and to suggest caution with the poor girl. She's lived with this other chap quite a time, and if she left him for K., it might be disastrous. She's at settling down stage, and Kevin - well, isn't. If they were both six or seven years older, I'd be happier.

I was very impressed by the way he talked about the job, there's a strength of character there. 'I'd trample on a position, but never on a person.' I was moved to look at that soft boyish face, telling me his plans and dreams and see, every now and then, glancing through it, the man. To sit and listen to him tell me it all, so trusting in my friendship, and perhaps in my opinions, is very very precious to me. If it were only physical, it wouldn't be so bad. But it's everything. Sometimes I think I would just like to hold him in my arms, while he confided in me all the time. Then I want him to go out and be praised, and come back and tell me. Yes, come back and tell me. I want to cook for him and see that he's comfortable and sleeps well, and has cigarettes and music paper. So many things flood into my mind to help him when he talks to me, I don't know where to start.

The pain I dread is him setting up home on his own, which he must do, and me having to send him off with a brave face.

Thursday August 19 1982

K. still in M'chester, holding auditions.

I rang Simon and could tell lies no longer. He was going out with Rupert. I asked him if we could meet. With all the wonderful happenings and my feelings and the overthrow of my whole life I had to see him and tell him.

As we walked towards the restaurant, I said 'It's really bad - I'm in a real mess and state. Everyone looks repulsive or a bad copy of K.’ It was essential for me to tell him, otherwise I don't know what might have happened. I sometimes feel as if something in my head would snap. And it's all me poor K. it's nothing to do with him. I know most of it is my own invention.

Saturday August 21 1982

K. arrived back on 1.12. He had auditions yesterday, and then a music session from 7-10 in the evening. Back to the digs at 12, and played cards with Joe Cavanagh till 4.0 a.m. He looked all right! Youth.

Tonight he was off with a nice youngster called Peter Hutchinson to see a three-girl group at the Bloomsbury Theatre called the Sadista Sisters.

How mysterious love obsessive love, is, like an illness coming in waves, this expectant feeling in the stomach, the pain, in the, yes, in the heart. And it's nothing to do with poor Kevin.

Sunday August 22 1982

Simon went off to France for 2 1/2 weeks, to work and see Aziz. I hate him being away.

Oh, a strange day today. I should have recorded long ago, that K. wrote to his first love, Jenny Sheppard, soon after he arrived. Here he was, settled in London, and that was the first social decision he made. Obviously her desertion of him made a great impression. Well, first love. He brought the letter to me for approval and correction. It is odd that he has a block of any kind about words and writing - he writes v. well on the rare occasions when he does. There were a few trifling grammatical and spelling mistakes. But otherwise - ! 'Nerve thrills are shooting through my stomach as I write.' He wanted to make some contact with her - I don't think he'd ever accepted her dishonesty. It was an honest artless boyish letter. It wasn't answered.

Then suddenly today, the bell rang, at 5.30. A rather pretty fair girl asked if K. was in. It was her nearly two months later. I sent her down, they were together about an hour, and he made some tea. When she'd left, he came upstairs, bright red, with full eyes, and wandered round the drawing-room. 'Are you all right?' I said. 'No', he said, 'No, I'm not all right. I'm not at all all right.' She had, among other things, told him she'd hated 'Visiting Day', and she'd found his letter 'very funny'. Altogether his description of her, made me think of her as a rather insensitive and ordinary girl. (I was absurdly a bit hurt that he said he wished he'd been able to meet her on his own ground - and not in a book-lined room, he meant, which is certainly not his ground, but I must put that away.) I think I helped a little. At one point, when he said he couldn't see that she was attractive even, and obviously felt bewildered by the whole thing, I said, 'Has it ever occurred to you, that you can be in love with someone who isn't really there? You were seventeen, you threw over her physical attraction, so violent at 17, the veil of everything else you wanted from your love. She wasn't it.'

Monday August 23 1982

To first reading of 'Dr Who' at Threshold House. As I thought, Peter Davison is a dear, sunny and warm and very mercenary, I daresay. A bright sparky little girl called Janet Fielding and I, struck up a good talk. All through the reading, whenever they were free, the three principals were signing coloured postcards of themselves. Dear old Nick Courtney was there, - hadn't seen him since oo, Birmingham.

In the evening to dinner with dear George Rowell, at the Garrick Club. Oh. I do enjoy going there, as it is itself part of the old theatre I loved, and it is crammed with relics and records of it. It was very sweet of George to suggest that he puts me up for the Club. I bet Peter Barkworth will black-bull me!

Tuesday August 24 1982

Was telling K. about the Garrick visit, and he suddenly hit out with how he hated all that sort of thing. I said about the pictures 'Oh yes' he said, 'that makes it v. interesting' in a horrible sarcastic voice. He went on even worse when I said I'd been put up for it. I told him of something I'd really enjoyed and been thrilled by, and he spat at it. He was really nasty. I felt sick. And he never noticed how deeply he'd hurt me. Sometimes I wish I'd never met him or let him stay here.

He went out, still not noticing, to take that secretary out to dinner at September. At the door, he said, 'If Sue rings', 'Yes', I said, 'just what shall I say?' Poor Sue is coming tomorrow, or even today.

Thursday August 26 1982

Yesterday was an awful day. I went filming for 'Dr Who' at Trent Park. I wonder what on earth Philip Sassoon would think of it now. I enjoyed walking in the still beautiful garden and park. Roger Hammond is nicer and more pathetic than I thought. Of course I finished the day, as I finish every filming day, exhausted from standing, in an irritated tearful rage. Got home at 9.30 to find Sue and K. at dinner. He was in his bathrobe. I turned my bath on, went upstairs and got myself a gin and tonic, and sat down in the big arm-chair to talk to them - they'd nearly finished. I thought to myself 'Perhaps just this once, K. will offer to get me my second gin as I'm so tired.' But no, he still didn't move. So up I struggled. When I got back down, he was lying in the armchair, saying, 'Sorry, Angus, I'm flaked out, had to lie down.' Of course he wasn't to know I'd never had anyone in the house when I came back from filming. But I didn't realise how hurt and angry I was for a bit. Later on, when they went back into the room - I suppose to continue the fucking that had so exhausted him - he casually dropped the information that Sue's sister was coming early the next day. There was all the washing-up to be done, which he wouldn't do because he wouldn't care, but he must know I couldn't give a strange teenager breakfast with last night's washing-up all over the place.

I caught him at his bedroom door and lost my temper as I haven't lost it for years. I can see his face now crumpled with my shouts. I slammed his door, shaking with rage and pain, crammed on a jacket and slammed out of the house. I walked up and down and round for - I don’t know how long - hours. I felt - I feel panic, spasms of real agony. I keep saying to myself 'This is awful'. It is so awful to be divided. We aren't speaking. And he's left a note saying he doesn't think it'll be a good idea to go to the theatre.

I went to a film this aft. and can't even remember what it was.

Friday August 27 1982

To lunch with Ben Duncan at Magno's. A voice from the past. Pleasant but boring really. A mistake. I'd forgotten he was so limp.

Again to a film 'Heat-Wave'. I can't go on like this.

Saturday August 28 1982

He made it up. He said 'I was a real twat on Thursday.' He said little more, but his manner said it all. He can actually exhale warmth without words. When I feel he wants to be close, well of course, my spirits went from low to volcanic in a second.

He's been asked to a 'bal masque - he said, 'So I'm wearing my tails'. 'Oh' I said, 'Then wear one of my evening shirts, and white ties'. The end of it was, that, after a couple of glasses of wine and some spag. bog., he left the house about 11.30, in a stiff shirt, wing collar, white tie, tail- coat, baggy white trousers, and grubby blue and white training shoes. He looked marvellous - he's got just neck and shoulders for conventional clothes.

Sunday August 29 1982

Apparently he came back about 1.30. The idiot girl who'd asked him, had said masked ball, but when he arrived and saw others going in, they all looked more like a heavy metal band. Noone else had dressed up at all. What a shame, what pleasure they miss.

I don't think he liked it at all. There was a lot more drink and pot there and I suppose everyone was stoned, but he wasn't specially. He wandered about alone said, 'I always find someone to chat up, but not here.' And then there was a nasty experience. Somebody started playing some African drums, gradually people drifted in, a man sang about a lighthouse, and in the end everyone was in there and joined in. Now that would on the surface be a very usual way for a young party to develop, - I might have expected K. to be at the drums. Not at all (and I must repeat, I don't think he was very stoned, he hadn't been there long enough.) he was repelled, and said that they joined in, expressing real anger and frustration. I said that might be justifiable in today's world. ‘No' said K., 'it was personal hatred, frustration at not being more successful or attractive. I was the only one who didn't join in. I hated it, and came away.'

There you are, the artist against the mob.

It sounds an affair full of thoroughly third-rate people to me.

I expect that man didn't play the drums very well either!

Sunday August 29 1982

He announced suddenly he was going to see his aunt in Bagshot. 'I've been in London three months and not been, and now I'm off to Manchester, so...' So I sat down to a suddenly solitary dinner, made miserable entirely by my own instability. He is simply treating me as a 'mate'. What else could he do?

Monday August 30 1982

Neil came to dinner. K. was in, too. Lovely.

Wednesday September 1 1982

Again K. suddenly left, suddenly said he was going off to stay with Phil Lawrence. Ate his dinner, and said, 'Well, I'm off now.' I was again suddenly furious at being left with an empty evening and a lot of dirty dishes again. And said so. The little creep, the creep.

Went to Fawcett C.

Thursday September 2 1982

Rehearsals, of course, v. dull. He came back, quite without rancour. He certainly doesn't bear grudges. But again he went off suddenly in the evening, to see Neil tonight instead of tomorrow. Well, of course, he must be with his young friends. He was sweet tonight, but you can't expect him to spend so much time with the middle-aged. Of course I do, but I mustn't I mustn't. I must oddly enough, think of him more.

Friday September 3 1982

Tonight I took John and Simon to Magno's while K. had dreary Phil to dinner and to say again.

I was not myself, they were very quiet and all was over by ten! When I got home, Phil and K. were all over the drawing-room watching some war film I would have died rather than sit thro'. And where could I sit and see the TV? Sit downstairs and drink? Pretended I was going to the pub and walked numbly round for an hour.

Saturday September 4 1982

And then, you see, he got up at 12.15 this morning, and was as soft and confiding as any friend could want. I think Phil makes him coarse. He got me up to date with his feelings and his life generally. He is a surprising boy. Off to Manchester tomorrow for a week, and it didn't stop him going to Phil L's for the night again. But perhaps he's getting sick of that sofa.

Sunday September 5 1982

To David and Fiona Gilmore's for dinner. A small Georgian-type cottage in Barnes. Front-door open straight into the sitting-room with the dining table quite big, there were four guests incl. me - at the back. The other three guests, whose names I never caught - I think I'm going deaf, and I am in any case not myself at the moment - were none of them deeply sympathetic to me. David exhibited that insensitive streak almost at once, by cracking some blue jokes rather earlier than the feeling of the company warranted, and altogether I wondered if the evening was to be gruesome. No, it picked up. They became more sympathetic, and no doubt I became more relaxed. All was saved for me by Fiona. She is pretty, witty, brave and a good cook.

How strange to spend an evening with David after all these years! The ability is as obviously, more obviously there, than ever, and the curious streak of deadness. Ah well, I'm still very fond of him, for old times, if nothing else.

Tuesday September 7 1982

So K. went to M'chester on Sunday. Hope he's seeing Roy this afternoon. Rehearsal. To 'Hamlet' in evening at Young Vic. Quite awful ludicrous. And yet and yet, Ed has some moments that fill my eyes with tears. At moments there is no one like him - he can express almost unspoken pain better than any actor. In the third scene, 'Very like, very like,' moved me unbearably, he put so much pain into it.

Wednesday September 8 1982 Thursday September 9 1982

Studio days.

Saturday September 11 1982

He never came or phoned. I went round to Simon eventually, and cried.

Sunday September 12 1982

Wrote him a harsh letter.

Monday September 13 1982

Edna's 80th b'day.

Tuesday September 14 1982

To Barbican for 'All's Well.' 1st time to B. for me and Simon. Sat with Peter Shaffer. Left at interval it was so poor. Miscast from top to bottom. Utterly wretched. Simon said 'Yes, it's boomerang conversation.' Poor Simon, I treat him badly.

Wednesday September 15 1982

Roy arrived, and limply agreed to see two films neither of us wanted to see. 'Fame' and 'Coal Miner's Daughter', both, in their way, goodish. For the moment. I am unfair to Roy. I resent his presence, a lot of the time. But only because he isn't Kevin.

Thursday September 16 1982

To 'She Stoops' in the evening at Lyric, Ham. with Roy. Awful. Came out at the interval, as much at Roy's request as mine. The casting was dreadful. But poor Roy is getting the fag end (very suitable) of my personality. I feel sick and hot all the time.

Friday September 17 1982

K. rang, and we put it right. But I feel badly. I am not sure of my judgment just now. I must not be so self. I must think of him and his life and good.

Saturday September 18 1982

To John N's flat to leave some bread and milk. They came back from holiday today. I was so surprised to be greeted by a policeman! There'd been a murder a few doors up, some Italian antique dealer. I wasn't much help, but I recommended the nice young bobby to talk to the woman in John's basement. I said, 'She'll know what visitors he had, who's in every room in every house, and very likely who did the murder.' Of course he had plunged into novelty, and has been desperately busy.

Sunday September 19 1982

After all the pain of the last few weeks, tonight there is the dull leaden misery of his absence - he's been a fortnight in Manchester. He thought he'd be back and forth more, but he's so busy he won't be.

I know I should only be glad he's got this marvellous job, and I am, I am. I know I have to give him up, as I have any friend, to his work. I've had to give up too much in my life.

But he does love me. We have a strong thing going between us, those odd little looks and nods and monosyllables and signs, that make up a friendship, and are important to him, I'm almost sure. When I said the other day, for instance, 'I think I understand you fairly well by this time', the way he assented was - showed me he believed me completely, almost that nobody had ever understood him so well. Again he said, at another time, quite casually, 'You were right about that, as you always are.'

Moments like these when we're alone, are possibly my illusion, but I don't think so. I have always found that, years later, my perceptions have been confirmed.

But I have a feeling of tenderness for him, a protectiveness that almost overwhelms me. If only I could keep him safe for ever. Not to myself, but safe from harm.

I do miss him.

Monday September 20 1982

Had Phil Lawrence to din. Alone, of course, the flow of course but genuinely showy talk, is completely absent. In its place is a nice dull provincial boy, who is unadventurous and commonplace in his tastes and emotions. How piqued he'd be, perhaps, to know that I only had him to dinner to talk about K., find out things about K., and show K. that I wasn't frightened of taking on Phil. (K. said I might have met my match in Phil, in talk. Huh!

Wednesday September 22 1982

Possible generalish strike. Roy arrived with the wonderful news that the Royal Court Theatre Upstairs, has accepted his play 'Care'. I am so pleased for him, and took him to dinner at Fox- trot Tango. (They don't know it should have a 'u'.)

I don't myself think 'Care' is the best of his plays. It is just the sordid subject that appeals to the Court!

Poor darlings, they are in such a rut. And he'll get about £1500.

Thursday September 23 1982 Friday September 24 1982 Saturday September 25 1982

He's back. That's all.

On Friday took me out for dinner, as a sort of farewell treat. Once more I noticed, how, without saying how much I value our friendship or anything very explicit, he radiates warmth and sends out to me the tenderest of feelings and sympathy. It is lovely to sit and listen to him parade his dreams and hopes. About his career, his money. We’d driven to the restaurant, both very drunk, through really torrential rain. Still raining later on, still drunker, we got back and he played for how long? just improvising and trying out things, while I lay on the sofa and watched and listened. And tried to let go. That's what I shall almost miss most, - him running in and saying 'Come and listen to this'.

Now he's gone to see 'Pirates of Penzance' against his will because Peter Hutchinson's flatmate Louise is in the chorus. Because he hates the music.

Sunday August 26 1982

K. to Manchester today. but rang twice. To tell first when he came out of Drury Lane, someone had let his tyre down, so I think he limped back to Primrose Hill, and in the end left the car there and went to M'chester by train. But of course the main thing is that he spent the night with Louise. She sounds nice. He said 'She's a bit fat' and she works with the Muppets on their new big movie, and I admire her arse.' 'Yes, I see', I said, ‘as she's a bit fat'. 'No', he said, her art. Because she had talked to him about puppetry, and he had listened. (That's the first time I've heard him get over a physical deficiency to a sort of relationship.)

So - sorry - drunk. The second ring was to say that he was leaving the car, and not coming back here etc etc. Louise sounds like a real person.

Monday August 27 1982

K. in recording studio. I must remember what a spell the rec. stud. casts on him, because he can work there. Like a rehearsal. Rang 4.30-5.0. Spilt tea all over everything. But a lovely talk. I gave him a lighter and a poem.

Friday October 1 1982

In Bournemouth since Wed. K. is home for last time, his words. No more.

Saturday October 2 1982

He had dismantled his stereo, had packed up anything interesting, and he went off yesterday, today really.

I pushed him out thro' the arch door. Go, go go. Oh don't be like that. He went.

I shan't see him again.

Saturday October 2 1982

It rained all day today, without stopping.

Monday October 4 1982

Thank God Simon is back. Today he took me for lunch to a new restaurant just round the corner from him. It's called 'Marin's' in Ifield Rd. It's only been open about ten days. Very pretty, in shades of peach with generous and tactful curtains and chairs. Food really memorable. Each dish could have gone straight on the wall of a gallery. Turbot with a pale irovy sauce and a pale orange sauce mingling in the middle of the plate. A thick section of courgette, its edge pinked, and filled with pureed celeriac. And so on. 'Marin' a charming young man. We arrived at about 1.15, and there was only one other couple there throughout lunch.

S. reduced me to tears at one point by his refusal to look at the theatre except from the highest viewpoint. I was able to talk of K. as well, which is such a help. I can't tell if I'm boring people, and with S. it doesn't matter. He's so good.

Tuesday October 5 1982

To see Tony Cruse. I hate talking about money and tax more than anything on earth.

In the evening had to see that wretched play 'Tanzi' again, because of dear Neil. Even then I had to go out during the last wrestling match. I cannot endure ordinary civilized people getting caught up in the nastiness of a wrestling-match, and shouting out like gutersnipes. Especially when it is vaguely feminist, and they are shouting against Neil. Ugh! Went with the Draycotts. Yes, plural. He's back with his wife. She's called Manny, which put me off for a start. (I suppose she calls P. Womanny when they're alone) She is very small, almost dwarfish, and speaks more quietly than anyone I have ever met. So, after only a few minutes in the crowded bar, my ears were strained and my back breaking. Quite literally, I missed 75% of what she said. You cannot ask someone to repeat something more than twice.

She is warm, not to say emotional, intelligent, humourous?, anyway, she laughs a lot. He's advanced too quickly into pseudo-intimacy in one evening for me. Was assistant? to Harold Pinter. And writes, radio plays for instance.

We went on to RSS, and were joined by Neil. He said the next day, 'I didn't realise you knew his wife so well, do you fancy her a bit, you were certainly in her lap all night.'

I was trying to catch at least every fifth word! the strain!

K's been in the studio for ep. 1 today and yesterday.

Wednesday October 6 1982

To dear Myles for dinner. Very soothing. One day I must talk to him more fully.

Thursday October 7 1982

Edna arrived, even frailer. Oh dear. But it is a comfort not to be alone again.

K. was having Linn up for the weekend. I wonder if she'll arrive. She really is a tease.

Friday October 8 1982

To the V&A. Shut! Outrage. I told the taxi 'Drive to Harrods.'

Saturday October 9 1982

To a wedding in Croydon. Deloraine, Edna's god-daughter, was marrying off her daughter. D's father and mother are Arthus and Mercy, Edna's oldest friends. I'd hired a car for the day, no alternative though Edna doesn’t seem to see it quite, and off we rolled. It didn't hurt as much as I expected. Because of the car, I felt we could get away whenever I liked. I loved sitting and chatting with Arthur and Mercy and there was no trace of the fearful vulgarity which so marred Joyce's wedding for me. I must say I loathed the very low-church vicar. Friends, he began. How I hate that! Deloraine made the bride's dress, and oh dear it did look it. 'The material cost only...' Precisely.

Sunday October 10 1982

Simon off to Spain to write his theatre book. Prim in the evening, all right, thank god, tho' she is still the enigma she's always been.

Monday October 11 1982

Went on a shopping exped. for writing-paper, sponge, and a new winter coat for her 80th.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 45

October 11 1982. April 7 1983.

Monday October 11 1982 (cont.)

Found a Harris Tweed coat almost immediately in Aquascutum. Beautiful greens and browns with red fleck you can hardly see. We saw the duchess of Argyll, Margaret, I mean. Oh what a stretched unnatural wretchedly unhappy face.

Tuesday October 12 1982

Ed Fox brought his mother, Angela, to lunch. She is a rattle - I think I might begin to hate her if I saw much of her, but very entertaining just for lunch, better than dinner.

This evening I'd booked for 'Noises Off' the only thing Edna really wanted to see, and I was dreading seeing it again. So now I feel really guilty. It was a dreadful day, rain all day, and there was the Faulklands parade. I don't quite know why, but there were the worst jams since I've been here. I went to get a taxi, and found the traffic solid right to the Broadway, and in every other direction as far as I could see. I never found a taxi, and if I had, it couldn't have got through. Likewise if I'd ordered a limousine. I wandered about in the rain, and then knew we couldn't get there. Of course she was very disappointed, but happily we could go straight to Martin's. We left a message with the theatre to tell John Nick to join us. To cut a long story short, she said she had the best meal, she thought, ever. At 80 that's saying something.

It was a little balm to that soreness inside that's always there.

Wednesday October 13 1982

To the Cotman Exhitibit, at last with Edna. Quite extraordinary. Some of the water-colours are 600 years early - uncanny, just like Brangwyn or someone, in colouring.

Thursday October 14 1982

To Ingrid's memorial service at St. Martin's. One of her daughters, one of the twins, is so like Ingrid it was painful. At one moment a solo violin - I couldn't see the player - played As Time Goes By, very slowly, slipping up an octave for the last eight bars. John Gielgud looked through me. I had to go, but the leaden lump inside me was not helped.

Friday October 15 1982

Saw Edna off as usual, and walked away into engulfing misery. The Rycrofts were coming to dinner - it nearly killed me to get ready for them, when as a rule I'm flapping after Edna - and then they didn't come.

That didn't make me feel more wanted. No work, no Kevin. It's a fortnight. Why haven't I rung him?

Saturday October 16 1982 3.0.

I don't know why. Well, I won't ever ask him why he hasn't 'phoned. He's plunged into a busy life. And anyway he's coming to fetch the piano this weekend. He didn't say which day - he never does. Anyway, there's food either way, whichever he likes, veal or a casserole.

Oh well it'll be tomorrow.

Sunday October 17 1982

He never came or 'phoned. I must not hate him. I have no right. I can't describe…

Monday October 18 1982

I went to see Julian about 'Inside Out', the Slade-Rey. musical that was never done. He seems to want it done, so I humour him. He repeats himself so much and is so slow, it is painful to see him. I must always remind myself that he has had so much nastier a life than mine. Though sometimes these days one wonders! those 25 years of radiant happiness don't seem to help me, and yet perhaps I would go under altogether.

I went to see 'Diva' and sat and thought how much I miss K. I must think of him and his good.

Tuesday October 19 1982

When I wake up, the lump of lead, the misery, is there at once. Part of it is shame. What use am I going to be to him as a refuge or a father or a friend? But oh, how I just need to see him and have him about.

Went to see 'Blade Runner' in the afternoon, walked out after about half an hour - it was so slow. And I love Harrison Ford.

In the evening took Prim out to Foxtrot Qango. It's only fairly good but then it's fairly cheap. She comforted me, too, but here I am alone.

Wednesday October 20 1982

Had the two leading people from the TV Salad Days, to dinner. Susan Beagley and Simon Green. She's a warm spirited girl, with a big wide full-lipped mouth, which sums her up. I loved it that she threw herself on the floor to illustrate something. I'd thought he was rather a camp young man in a rather old-fashioned way from TV. He was much nicer than that, tho' his appearance is a bit artificial. I don't care what he says, he dyes his hair black.

Thursday October 21 1982

To 'Raggedy man' with Neil. Rather good. Sissie Spacek who is very nearly very good indeed. And that splendid young actor, Eric? who was so good in King of Gypsies a much under-valued actor.

Saturday October 23 1982

David and Fiona Gilmore came to dinner. And fifteen years of estrangement are forgotten. It was interesting to see what he's like, now that I can detach myself completely. Yes, he is insensitive; I mean, he still shows quite clearly that inability to sense what others are feeling and wanting to talk about. This is not to say he is ill-natured or stupid - he simply doesn't notice that he is jarring slightly. Fiona is a lovely girl and my style. I could tell she felt the jars, too.

But it was a satisfying evening for me. He gave me the brochure of his season - out of seven productions, five are world premieres. But he's a dear, too, and didn't, of course, mention the past, as he didn't mention the present, then.

Sunday October 25 1982

Tears in the sink again. Why haven't I rung? Because I don't want to seem at all to be asking or making demands on him. But I must. It's too long.

Monday October 25 1982

Rang K. in his office. 'Hullo, Angus, old bean. How are you doing?' He rattled through what's going on. It seems good. I concentrate so fiercely that I don't hear or remember. Heavenly talk. I'm a fool. thanks God he'll never read this.

Tuesday October 26 1982

To my dentist, Wimpole St. He stands in a beautifully laundered white coat, at the top of the stairs, in what I can tell - who else among his patients? - is a carefully angled spot! Nothing to be done again for the twelfth year running.

Wednesday October 27 1982

Lunch with Ken Branagh at Cafe des Amis. When I'm with him, I feel all right. It's after I think he's calculating. But he's a friend for life, I'd say.

Thursday October 28 1982

Still no sign of work or life or anything. the Rycrofts to dinner. He is a very famous psychiatrist. God preserve me from him, when I think how little he apprehended about me or his wife this evening. Neil tomorrow.

Thursday November 2 1982

'Nuts' opens tonight. That I should live to be jealous of David Gilmore. Dear little thing. Sent bottles to him and Ron Berglas. I thought I might have gone to it, much as I hate first nights, - but neither of them found me seats. Well, of course I was glad really, because first nights are so awful. If you mind about someone - like D - it's agony. If you don't care, it's such an unreal perf. If I could find some way

Wednesday November 3 1982

He rang at 7.15. I asked about his mother when I came up, because I'm coming up to see some episode or other. We talked of Wales, where he's going to write the big number. We also talked of 'Wayne's Dad'. I said I was still worried by such a play-carrying part being played by such a young boy. I have always said that we would never get such a youngster, eleven, twelve, to do it. To stand and deliver 'Who Will Buy' or 'Consider Yourself' is one thing, but a dramatic play- carrying part, with a lot of varied numbers, no. So I suggested a youngster I'd seen in the Vauxhall Opel commercials. David John. He is about 22, but looks 15. I'd mentioned him to Roy as a possibility, and Roy said that he'd auditioned for Visiting Day, and Kevin had been mad about him. 'You mean he can sing?' I said. So I suggested him. K. said, 'Angus, you are brilliant. He came to a Visiting Day audition, and said that he was going to do an Astaire-Rogers number, cheek to cheek, but my partner hasn't arrived, so I'll do both parts myself, which he proceeded, very brilliantly to do, hilariously. I'm not quite clear why he didn't get a part. K. seemed to imply a little prejudice somewhere. I must say I can't see where that obvious brilliance might be usefully used. Still, he repeated, 'You are brilliant.

He seems all right, god only knows how he's eating and sleeping. I must let him go, to keep him.

Thursday November 4 1982

To lunch with Rupert Everett. I arrived at the small elegant house in Bywater Street. His parents have recently moved out and left him in possession. He is a spoilt charmer born out of his time. He took me out to lunch at whatever the name of that place is, in that first basement in Markham Square. We had a riotous lunch, with everything about his sex-life, full of incident by his account, but I wonder, when I consider the afternoon. He said he was going to Selfridge's, - I said so was I. He said he was going because he'd me someone who'd violently attracted him at a gay club; he'd screwed the partner of the one he fancied, but hadn't the courage to overthrow the one he really liked! It turns out the loved one is a window-dresser at Selfridge's. So off we went to look for him. For nearly an hour we quartered each floor. Finally we ended up, rather appropriately, in the basement. I had to keep encouraging him, because, slightly to my surprise, though I can't think why, after all these years, he has little sexual confidence. I saw two female window-dressers in the uniform of check shirts and jeans that he'd described. I said, 'Go and ask them.' Eventually, diffidently, he did. 'Do you know one of yr. window-dressers, with rather flat blond hair, hollow cheeks, rather broad shoulders?' 'Oh yes, they said, Sonia.'

"And", I said, "I suppose when you said 'close-cut moustache, big feet' they said, 'Oh yes, Sonia.’ Altogether a hilarious pathetic afternoon. One part of the pathos is that my life is so empty that such an expedition was a relaxation.

In the evening took Ed Fox to Martin's. He insisted on paying, which spoilt the evening for him. But I do love that man - I sometimes think I bring something out of him that not many people do. At any rate my view of my friend is not at all like the Edward other people talk of. I love him. I can only speak as I find.

Friday November 5 1982

Dinner at John N. Oh, what soothing comfort to go to John. When all is so frightful, when there is nothing.

I have a few hours of feeling that I am still the person I was.

Saturday Nov. 6 1982

Rang Phil L. in the morning, despising myself and trembling all over because of the pain of what I might hear. I don't know what I would feel if I knew he'd been in London and not rung. I just don't want to know. Phil said Linn would be in Manchester this weekend. Well. My god, she is as big a cock tease as I've heard of.

Tonight to 'Nate' at the Whitehall. A two-dimensional play, tho' that is no reason for it not to be a success. If it isn't one of the reasons will be simply because it's American. The other will be the leading lady, who, while being beautiful and fluent, is, as one of the notices said, 'as mad as a hatter when it's convenient to be so, and as sane as sane when that's needed.' That's true. It is a display of 'acting.' A pity it isn’t twenty years ago. She'd take it further, and it would be more of a draw as an exhibition of acting. Took Ron B. to Chez Solange. He's a nice creative within strict limits.

Sunday November 7 1982

K. is in Wales this week, in a cottage in Brecon, found by Sue, belonging to her solicitor. I must say I would think twice before I lent a cottage to two unknown young men. I can't see K. cleaning the oven.

Monday November 8 1982

Linn rang! Had I got his number? She's rung it and found it unobtainable. Had she got it right? I said I'd find out. Got the number confirmed at Granada. Rang it. K. answered in the tamest way. And we had a lovely talk. He said he was looking out on nothing but pine forest, and doing great work. I said Linn had rung about her visit to Manchester. 'Oh' he said. 'Well', he said, 'about the opera on Saturday, I'm bringing the wardrobe-mistress. Is that all right?' 'Oh', I said, 'Yes, of course.'

Fancy. Really that boy is a perfect circus. I remember he fancied the w mistress at the first reading, but he hasn't mentioned her since. So I rand Linn and told her the number was right!

Tuesday November 9 1982

Thinking over yesterday, I think what impresses me most, is that Linn rang me. After all she works in Granada. I suddenly see that I have a place in his life, which others sense. Good.

Had David Hobbs to lunch, hoping to get him to do some jobs for me. But he seemed to be sending out subliminal messages to me not to suggest any such thing. Rang K. for 30 secs at 6.5, to tell him David John was playing one of the leads in a play tomorrow night. He is certainly off-putting on the 'phone sometimes, monosyllabic, as if it's the wrong moment. Oddly enough, he reminds me of D. in this way.

It is just that he has such infinite power to hurt me, that I really shiver as I pick up the 'phone in case. The play is called 'Repentance' about young soldiers.

Wednesday November 10 1982

Davd John very good in Repentance, in fact, so good I saw what a pain it must be to him to be so small and babyfaced. Also good a boy called Peter Lee-Wilson, (I think) with a very vivid sloping face and speaking eyes.

Thursday November 11 1982

I suppose nobody who didn't grow up between the wars, will ever understand what an extraordinary atmosphere this day had. Even at ten and eleven, I could feel the electricity in the air from the still continuing bitterness and emotion of loss and mourning.

In the afternoon to 'Romeo and Juliet' by the National Youth Theatre at the Shaw. As far as I could tell I was almost literally the only member of the public there, - all the rest of the audience, - and the theatre was packed - were schoolgirls and their mistresses. It was very interesting to me that the girls reacted to anything romantic or sexual, exactly as the schools matinee did in Bristol in 1959. You'd think modern girls wouldn't giggle so excitedly at a sexual gesture, but they did.

Nice unpretentious perf. As good a Mercutio as you could wish to see. Wrote him a fan letter.

Rang K. 6.0. This time he moved me quite differently. He told me he's hating the job! Oh dear, I feared that he might, when he saw thro' the scripts. but it seems it's studio politics. When June didn't answer my letter, I wondered if she'd changed. There is a tendency to treat him as a naughty boy to be indulged. Well, I do, or did, sometimes. He isn't free of blame for being little boy and intransigent. However, I don't know the rights and wrongs yet. And of course he doesn't want to talk about it. Not yet. But, he said three times, 'I can't wait to see you' and 'I must have a long session.' I hope he'll confide in me, because it'll help him to hear it better.

His brilliant gifts do deserve great consideration. I think he'd be happier in the theatre. I have already started lobbying David G., who I think would be ideal for K. And he has a show commissioned from Bob Mason already.

Yes, I hope he'll talk about it, because you ought to have someone quite outside the co. but in the business to put it in perspective.

Friday November 12 1982

Went to a bad film this afternoon. I can no longer stay alone - I get a sensation of panic, my peace of mind is utterly destroyed and I can concentrate on nothing. If it weren't for Simon, I would go mad.

In the evening to 'Diary of a Hunger Strike' at the Round House, a play about the Maze prisons. the lights went up on a shit-smeared cell, with two naked shit-smeared young men, one of them sitting on a chamber-pot producing more shit for smearing. I was immediately put off by the absurdly literal realism, indeed it was so naturalistic it wasn't. One was forcibly reminded that it wasn't real shit and that it was acting. As the first half wore on, one was also reminded how turgid plays get turgid actors. Oh dear, those solemn faces that slow delivery because you are saying something serious about an important subject. A tiny audience, mostly composed of self- consciously vocal IRA supporters as far as I could tell, and an icy theatre, drove me away at the interval.

Saturday November 13 1982

To Sadlers Wells tonight with Simon, to see Ann in Handel’s 'Hercules'. But all I could think about was that I would see Kevin for the first time for six weeks. I sat in the buffet not hearing a word dear Simon said, of course he understood and kept talking to try and take my mind off. Suddenly there he was, the dear little boy, with new red cord jeans, looking wonderful. I am frightened of letting him see how much he means to me. I turned at once to the wardrobe mistress, and whisked her straight to the bar, and tried desperately to attend to what she was saying. She's Janet Benge, about 35! nice and pro'y. We got on easily at once. (I'll describe her appearance later.) Ann was a little uneasy in the first half, and indeed sang a little out of tune. K. was wincing away, and was in one of his more arrogant moods. (He certainly has a strong reaction to any sort of suggestion of absolute standards. I shall have to tackle that one day.) We went round to see Ann - so odd to see K. talking to Donald! He thought him a pain. Who can wonder? Off we went to Chez Solange and at last he was sitting opposite me, and I could look at him and see that he was all right. He certainly didn't look tired and didn't seem down. We talked about everything but his troubles on the programme. Janet had mentioned 'the way Kevin's being treated.' Oh dear. But we talked about his money and his songs - he said he'd send me a tape! I introduced the idea of the Halifax, and a possible flat. I teased him and he liked it. Simon said on the way home how amazing it was I could be so light with him when I felt so strongly about him. 'Ah', I said, 'you see, if you really love someone, it gives you the wisdom to find the right way to help them.'

Janet was wearing golden tissue harem trousers and a big black shawl over a lace bressiere-like top, - just lace with the odd nipple sticking thro. Her make-up was extremely heavy, like an extremely exaggerated ballet make-up, with a few punky bits thrown in. Hair spiky. It was a cold night. I thought we might be arrested. She is a nice common sense girl - for a wardrobe mistress - but the clothes, I fear, were fancy dress, and therefore slightly embarrassing.

I have arranged to go up and see him quite soon. He seems quite to like the idea.

Sunday November 14 1982

K. rang about 12.30. He went back to Janet's - great house, her separated husband lives upstairs! He lay back on some cushions and said 'How about a massage, then?' They had some good sex, because 'she's a bit kinky, too.' Dear little boy, wanting to tell me.

Of course, I didn't point out that affairs in a series can be a bit of a bind. If they don't last as long as the series, and end badly, there you are glaring at each other across the rehearsal room.

Phil Lawrence wanted to bring his girl-friend, Susan, to lunch. She used to be a pupil, from 12 onwards, and I think he feels a bit funny, like a paedophile, lusting after her now she's 18. She's a pleasant quiet girl, but there's some character and humour there, despite K's strictures on her, 'a pain.' Phil of course, was a different man, no filth, no wit! butter wouldn't ... I think he'd better marry her and go back to Liverpool.

Had little Paul Ryan round in the evening. He's a lively boy.

Tuesday November 16 1982

Rang K. very briefly at 11.0, but he wasn't very forthcoming. I expect it was a bad moment. I hate myself for getting upset, and deciding to wait till he rings me. I have told him he can depend on me, and part of what I owe him is to keep the friendship respectably going, easier at my age.

I must think of him and not myself and what I want.

Wednesday November 17 1982

To the Park Lane Hotel for the luncheon to launch No Turn Unstoned, the book I helped Diana Rigg and Penny Rycroft to compile. The luncheon was a joint one with Bernard Levin's new book. I met Jenny in the foyer, and we went thro' the untouched Art Deco splendours of the hotel, and were just going into the small VIP room with the nice man from Hamish Hamilton, when a big bossy-boots woman stopped us and said this was the VIP room. That sort of woman deserves the comeuppance they always get. The room was for us three, D.R. and B.L. and nobody else! Collapse of bossy-boots.

The occasion was saved for me by sitting next to Ann? Diamond, Diana's agent. A bright intelligent funny woman. Well, she must be, she laughed a lot at my jokes. Bernard L's speech was not a success. Like so many writers, his timing is awful - and he can't 'point' at all, just rattles shapelessly along. But I liked him in the VIP rom. Dian's speech was a model of its kind. The food was poor and cold. In the evening Joyce and Jeremy came to dinner. He arrived first, about half an hour before her, - she was driving round lost in a taxi. He said she's beside herself that he was alone with me and saying the wrong thing! That's the endearing part of him, and actually he was very pleasant throughout. They have both changed, she is less nervy, he is less touchy. It is working. Good. I love her a lot, and wish her marriage hadn't divided us, as it undoubtedly has.

Thursday November 18 1982

To wildest Streatham to see Ron Berglas' possible new flat. It possibly could be very nice. The main room is very big and high, and quite hideously decorated. Every detail is utterly wrong, it's quite interesting.

I met Simon for a drink; we went to the party Quartet Books were giving to launch Angus McBean's book of photographs. On the stage of the Old Vic there were gathered the usual collection. I chatted to Angus McB a dear chatty sharp-eyed man, a figure from the past. Met Sabrina Guinness, one of those boringly attractive rich girls. A small shrivelled lizard-like creature, who turned out to be, unbelievably, Mary Morris. Still, it's better being at a party like that when you've got your greatest friend there, and you can go and have a lovely meal and talk after. Which we did.

Friday November 19 1982

To that Oxford undergraduate film 'Privilege'. The main boy had been hyped up by TV and so on. He's good for an amateur, but rather old-fashioned, as the whole film was. A damp squib. It was in some ways too accomplished.

Philip and Manny came to dinner. She is sweet, but she is sentimental and apt to say 'Oh Angus you are so wonderful and funny' too soon and too often. I quite like her. They are still spiky together.

Saturday November 20 1982

Went to see 'Diner', an excellent film of a kind Americans seldom bring off. And a very good short 'The Dollar Bottom' directed by Roger Christian.

Sunday November 21 1982

Rang K. bravely at 12.30 at the digs. And he was there! We had lovely long humdrum 'what sort of week have you had' talk. Good. He's fallen for Janet. He said it had got 'pretty heavy' during this last week 'nicely heavy, but I've been telling her things... I sent her some roses on Wednesday.' I said, 'What about Linn?' He said, 'I know.'

He didn't want to talk about the situation at work, but did talk about his work. He's sent me a tape with five nos and the signature tune on it.

Janet rang later on to ask where he was! He is a dear funny maddening boy.

And how much more often I should record the misery that makes Simon ring so often, so crying.

Monday November 22 1982

To 'The Devils' at the Guildhall, starring that flat-mate of Richard Huw's, whom I've often spoken to. Ah, I see, he's good-looking and neat and smug and finished, just the one to be admired by other students and come to nothing. The whole thing might have gone straight on to BBC2. Exactly what no student production should be like, safe, smooth, accomplished to a point, and so on. I left during the first Act. And what a play!

Tuesday November 23 1982

To Bournemouth with dear Neil, driving me in his very smart new Mini, with silver body, black sun-roof, a cassette player, Monaco written excitingly on the side. It was lovely speeding down the motorway with splendid hurry-music playing. Even the sun-roof letting in the rain didn't spoil it - he put it right at a garage we stopped at, anyway. Later we drove with Lalla over to the Nuffield, Southampton. Of course, Lalla didn't know the way, as she said he did. And we only just got there, with me in agony, as usual.

The play was a new play by Mike Stott, a favourite of mine, because he can write.

It was really quite extra-ordinary how I was held by the play, although the subject, Marxist associates in Switzerland plotting the Russian revolution, was very much outside my usual interest. But, as always with Mike Stott, he starts from the people, and writes well, and that makes all the difference.

Friday November 26 1982

To London. Roy had stayed the night before. But, but, Kevin's tape was there, in an ordinary envelope, almost slipping out of the torn end.

But it was there, I played it before I unpacked or set down. Oh there's no doubt - the brilliant pastiches and the signature tune, and I'm Wood.

There's no doubt. And him singing I'm Wood. Bugger. It reminded me he wasn't here.

Saturday November 27 1982

Rang K. 12.30 to say a bit about the tape, tho', as I daresay I've said before, with the work of someone I love, I need to go on listening and get over the first thrill, before I can say I've heard it. He's worked from 10-9, every day this week. I can believe it, with all that orchestration. I am just beginning to get a glimpse of his concentration and absorption in his work. He goes into his dreams. And nothing else comes through. He didn't mention Janet or Linn. But both will come into focus when he wants them! Ah well.

Sunday November 28 1982

To Philip and Manny's for hideous Sunday lunch. Just as I expected, like the Daltons, the pudding was served at 3.45. I left, again with my day and my digestion ruined.

However, I had met a novelist called Simon Pleasance, - I daresay, a bit of a phoney, but of a phoneyness that scratched the surface of my mind agreeably enough under those tiresome circumstances - and dear Jamie Muir, the Channel 4 book prog. producer, and his girlfriend, Kate Harwood, John Barton's Pa. I sent my love to him, and a lot of good that will do.

Monday November 29 1982

Roy arrived to stay while I'm away. K. rang 12.0, as warm as toast, to say when we meet tomorrow.

Tuesday November 30 1982 12.30.

At the Midland. In a different but quite pleasant room, big, square double. He has just left me to go off to Janet. When he'd left, I cried, but with joy. There is now complete sympathy between us.

He came to my room at seven-fifteen. (I forgot to say that I have just bought a cassette recorder, and brought it up here to show him, and I'm glad I did) For the first time he gave me a hug - that's what being in a series with Bob Stephens does for you, breaks down touch barriers. he went straight to the c. player and put on his latest song, a send-up of Barry Manilow, called Romeo. It's very funny, but it's also a good tune, and might be a hit on its own. At one moment near the end, the singer hits one of those high howls so typical of B.M., and K. makes it go on by 'manipulating the synths'. is that the expression? longer than any human could make it, without losing its human quality. Now that would get a good laugh on the stage. 'Who's that singing?' I said. 'Oh just a session singer', he said, 'I kept auditioning people and sending them away, saying ‘no, you're too good.' He hates B.M.

He seemed to think the cassette-player was good enough. We had a drink and then went to eat at a restaurant called Blinkers that he'd been to with Janet. It was one of those restaurants with no plants, and a menu printed immovably in Olde Englishe lettering. Little love about but it didn't hurt at all. He paid, with his new found wealth! Sweet. One sign of what it's like is that there was what seemed like a commercial traveller's Christmas outing. However, other things being equal, that's quite a good camouflage for an intimate conversation. And intimate it was. It was the best night of our friendship so far. Being separated either moves you further apart or nearer together. Seeing me again he obviously felt closer to me, and wanted to tell me more. Simon's phrase 'He had plumped his whole life in your lap', is true. The sympathy between us is now complete. He told me in detail of his feelings for Janet. He's in love, he thinks. I wonder. Although he's been stirred, more so than at any time I've witnessed, nevertheless I don't recognise the signs of anything but a strong physical attraction and an external fascination with the experience and worldly wisdom of a mature woman. For example, he didn't find it difficult to leave the subject, as genuine love does, as I know to my cost. However, I didn't say any of this, as, at the moment, I want it to go on. I'll wait till I meet her again properly, but I think it'd be very good for him. He's got a lot of work on his plate, and a settled affair with someone settled might be better for his work than batting about with a series of girls, or even one wild one. We'll see. On the lighter side, thinking of Sue, with whom he was sleeping only the other minute, and who, poor girl, probably thinks he's still with her, off and on, and Linn! I said, 'Now if I may ask, what are your visions of fidelity?' Have you any?' He said quickly, 'I want you to know that I have been totally and absolutely faithful to Janet, since that first night.'

'Great', I said, 'a fortnight and two days'.

He told me there was a suggestion of a second series. Already? Surely not. I can't believe it - with those scripts. I asked if he'd do it. He said he hadn't 'got his head together on it' yet. Difficult to know what to advise before we see how it's going to go - or not go, I think. The music may save it, if there's plenty of it, which there seems to be.

Best of all, in a passage of talk that moved me deeply, he said, 'Just these last weeks, I've realised my talent.' It has almost frightened him, I think, feeling his gifts stir and move, finding, for example, that he can imitate so many styles with such facility. Then come the fears as well as the elation. Have I got a voice of my own? Can I keep it up? It is after all, possible to betray a gift; the bigger the talent, the worse it can be betrayed. I don't know how many more moving experiences than listening to a gifted young man, sensing his strength, facing the future with wary and elated courage. I listened to him spread his wings, boast a bit.

His pleasure in seeing me, being with me and telling it all, was unmistakeable. OH, I am so grateful for his attention, and so thankful that I haven't lost it by any idiocy of mine. I have such a feeling for him that it almost frightens me, I am so vulnerable to him.

But mainly I count myself so lucky and grateful that he's on the earth at the same time. If I can help him and keep him on a level path, and look after him a bit, life will be worth living.

Forgot to say that we talked of his money. 'Drag me to the Halifax' he said.

Wednesday December 1 1982

Took Nancy Lingard to lunch at the Terrazza. She is a charming and delightful woman, with wit and heart. We had good talk of her work among juvenile delinquents. I told K. I'd picked up a few tips on how to deal with him.

Went into the gallery to watch the recording of episode 4, with, I think, one or two scenes from 5. Caught that frightful exchange between Bob Stephens and M. Feast in the green-house, with its unwise mention of Nietsche. June wasn't all that welcoming, nor was David Carson, who was, I suppose, directing the bits of 5, or perhaps 3. The atmosphere was not all that good. David Carson, in my brief exchange, struck me as like a tight-lipped bossy school-prefect. Phil Davis is good. Bob Stephens is B.S, Michael Faust is really weird instead of acting weird. The women are all awful and have been chosen by a misogynist. It may be a success with the young if there's enough music they like. Otherwise...

I saw a little of what K. is suffering, everyone is so much older than he is, and yet the idea was his and he is by far the most likely to hit off the tone of the time in music and indeed anything else. The saddest part is, I think he is very gifted, and I don't think anyone else connected with the series is better than third-rate, except June, but she's only first-rate as a director, not a producer.

I wasn't bored as I thought I might be, because I was living his life. I could do what he did, see what he saw. Now I can hold on to it when I go back, and feel closer to him. I was impressed all over again by his authority. And I was surprised I hadn't noticed how merry he is with people. When he throws back his head and laughs, he makes everyone round him feel better.

After all was over, K. had to go to the Midland to see Zoot Money! an apparently famous '60s name, who leads the jam session which closes ep. 4. It is a pot party, really, but K. doesn't intend to do anything but talk business. (This was the first time tho' that K. openly said to me he did smoke pot.) So would I go out to supper with Janet? So I did, with her and the new wardrobe mistress - Janet leaves after ep. 4. - Liz Everett. We went to Cafe Manchester on the far side of St. Peter's Sq. which stays open now till when two or three? Janet is rather cosy really, for all her bizarre clothes and make-up. We had a jolly after-show supper, and got on very well. I want it to last for the reasons I said, but I wonder if he has any idea how ordinary she is. If she is as ordinary as I think, she won't do for K. He needs unusual qualities that go deeper than make-up and clothes. This visit has shown me more of him than before. When the quick of his nature is touched, it will need a rare girl to accept it and respond to it.

We went back to the hotel, and I was much amused that K. had left a note at reception which read 'Kevin is in room 254'. Ah, my little bit of rough trade waiting for me. We waited a bit, and he came down and took her home.

Thursday December 2 1982

Again sat in the gallery. K. has looked after me quite beautifully. In the Stables bar after the recording yesterday, in the canteen, in the studio, in the hotel, he's never forgotten me, always brought me in. He has naturally perfect manners, as far as considerateness goes, and has been protective. This episode finished with a jam session, the music of which, as I suppose it was largely improvised, was nothing to do with K. When we broke about 6.30, I was walking away down the scene-dock with him. I knew something had been wrong, tho' I could not tell what it was myself. (I had a vivid illustration of what he has to put up. The sound-man in the sound- room next door was a chap of about 60, with hair scraped across his bald patch - and poor K has to argue with him - Sebastian G-J made what was even to me a perfectly feasible request - the sound man put his head specially round the door to say 'No!' with that peculiar smug triumphant rising inflection that no adult should use to another.) His face was set and slightly swollen as it always goes under emotion. He said the jam-session was a mess, 'they're all stoned wankers' or some such phrase. We walked on in silence. He made an exasperated - no, despairing sound. I put my hand on his shoulder, and started to say I was sorry. He snarled 'Take your hand away. Don't touch me. Leave me alone.' Just as he had in August.

Oddly this time I was not upset after I'd got over the shock. I managed to go on quite ordinarily. Now I think it was over, I think of it as a compliment. Various elements combine. It is his professional self that is outraged, and mustn't be comforted privately, perhaps because it would dilute or cover over, the force necessary to combat what is wrong. Then there is certainly the element of trust in me, that I'll be just the same however cross he is.

I suddenly see, and this makes me feel better, too, perhaps we have been fighting out the adolescence of our relationship, which certainly has a genuine element of father-son about it. We went to the Stables - I met a lot of friends. Forgot to record that I had a most agreeable talk with David and Lally Scofield. They have very happily married, and those of us who have been recognise one another. He is a sweet-natured simple man, who needs looking after, she is a loving warm straight girl. We had lovely cosy chats. They say he is a marvellous actor. I have yet to see him in anything major. It was Janet's last night with the piece, - she was taking a party out to a Chinese Restaurant; about twelve or fifteen of us gathered about a round table. It's no use, I hate Chinese meals, little fiddly bits dragging on, and smelling disgusting. Peking I like, but ordinary provincial Chinese, no. It was terribly noisy and hot and we were tightly pressed together. And of course they all had common company chatter. I was sitting next to Bob Mason, one of the authors, a square cheerful Northerner, with that usual uneasiness disguised in non-stop jokiness. But there is something straight and solid about him that I liked. I must get him to myself so that the permanent jokiness can be stopped. K. likes working with him and his lyrics. I am inhibited by this and by thinking his dialogue, at least in this, almost as bad as the other chap's.

At just after midnight, I was the first to leave, but I don't think it looked rude or anything. I pleaded an early start. K. go up to see me off, and said, 'There's nothing wrong, is there? You're not going because...' Now he'd never have done that at the start of our friendship.

Friday December 3 1982

Off to Liverpool to have lunch with K's parents. He had talked quite a bit about his mother's rheumatoid arthritis, and I wasn't at all sure how bad it was. He couldn't, after all, come with me, and perhaps this will show his character as much as anything. He didn't say anything to me as to what I was or was not to say to them. More plumping of his whole life - it's the trust.

I wondered how I would recognise his father. But his mother met me, having driven herself there alone, so I had to revise my ideas. No difficulty in recognition, a nicely dressed, small woman, in a fur jacket; one look at her profile was enough. She has a soft voice like him, and a similar smile and laugh. To get that out of way first, her attitude to her illness is not good - she talks too much about it, isn't positive enough, describes in detail 'what the doctor said'. But it's from her that K has got some of his qualities. She discoursed on the glories of Liverpool as we drove through. I think that is the saddest thing about truly provincial people, they will ask you what you think of where they live! A neat hideous little suburb, a council-house type house, painfully neat and painted and cleaned. Usual hideous taste, cheap dark brown carpet in lounge - well, it is a lounge - with large orange blobs from time to time. On the other hand, on stairs excellent plain burnt orange carpet, - ah but chosen by K? As usual, very well-kept pleasant garden otherwise not a single aesthetically pleasing object in sight. His father came out, small, old for his age, round-shouldered, rather defeated, utterly unformidable. She vanished into the kitchen and I never saw her again till lunch. Ernest asked me what I'd like to drink. He gave me a glass of sherry, chatted for a moment - then I was alone for a quarter of an hour! I had a good look round the room, but could see no evidence of K. The only photo of him was on the stairs. To be fair, I realised later that Marjorie's hands are quite bad, and he'd gone to help her. But still...

In the little breakfast-room, the table and chairs were all white, and rather daintily charming. Can't imagine what had taken the time - just soup and fish and two vegetables and a little pudding, but they had taken a lot of trouble and were painfully anxious to make me welcome. As for me, I was of course 'struck dumb in an ecstasy of observation'. He is weak, helpless, utterly ordinary, and I think can be summed up by his asking me on the way back to the station, whether I thought he'd not been 'firm enough with the boys'. I said K. had inherited some things from his mother - well, the tiny spark in her that makes her a little impatient with Ernest, that made her be a sort of model and do demonstrations in shops, and still faintly yearn after life and encourage the boys to perform, is a flame in K. And his talents and his taste and his physical distinction, are all his own. There must, after all, if I may say so, be something about a boy who can face me as a friend on equal terms with 30 years between us.

For once, I could talk non-stop about K. with perfect propriety! I told them a bit about K's money and the Halifax and the possible flat, because they must know he's all right. K. doesn't quite see that. They showed me the scrapbook. I didn't quite realise that K. has been performing and singing since he was about 12. There was a sweet photo of K. and his elder bro. Phil, in flowered shirts and Stetson hats, with guitars, billed as The Naive Duo. Later they were called the Layton Brothers, after the name of their road. They had a sort of agent, and got paid going round old people's clubs and pubs and so on, I suppose.

Marjorie said that although K. was the younger, it was always he who did all he patter, 'Come along, you can do better than that' etc. When she did her demonstrations, the boys sometimes helped by handing out the leaflets. 'Phil didn't like that', she said, but Kevin did'. And she handed out a leaflet with a bounce and a grin, and in profile suddenly was K.

K. rang during lunch, - imagine, he was that interested, anyway. The impression I've carried away is of a couple of hedge-sparrows who've hatched a bird of paradise, and are a bit bewildered. Marjorie is, or thinks she is, more worldly wise. She said that Phil was an extrovert. There is a great deal of him that isn't. They're brave and conscientious and good in their own way, but what a narrow way it is.

She showed me round the rest of the house. Nigel's room is a typical fourteen-year old suburban bedroom, about big enough for a bed, a chest of drawers and a chair. So my feelings may be imagined when she told me that Nigel and Kevin had shared this room and that Kevin had never had a room of his own. It's a wonder K. didn't strangle Nigel during those years when K. was 17 and Nigel was 9. No wonder K. got away so soon and came to London for the summers.

Oh dear, how good that I've offered him what I have. I don't think he has yet any idea of how much he's grown away from them.

I went back to the Midland, and got the Halifax form ready. He arrived about 4.30, all open towards me and warm. I told him all, he was fascinated. It's odd that I have to keep saying we've got closer, but we have. He told me he and Janet were going to the Lake District and did I know anywhere to stay? Oh dear, just imagine going away for a sexy weekend with someone he knows as little as Janet, without arranging it any more carefully than this! But of course K will probably fall on his feet! Anyway, the hall porter gave us an AA book and I fixed on somewhere in Windermere, as less likely to be closed just now. He went off to the telephone, then came back and said, 'How do you book a hotel?' I've never done it. Oh, the little thing. He drove me to the station, carried my bag out to the car, and then into the station. I said, as we embraced properly, 'You can count on me for anything, you know'. A lovely visit. I wish he were happier in his work.

Sunday December 5 1982

To the Bensons for lunch. Arrived too early. Had completely forgotten they'd put it back. Felt awful for a minute. But no longer. That's middle age for you. Rion's dotty sister again. and Terence Feely very very pleasant.

In the evening had Richard Huw, and his new girl, Janice Laurie. Scots not specially pretty, but very very nice. Guess what, she's a dominating type too. I can't remember a single thing we said, but I think I am a help to them in some way.

Wednesday December 8 1982

To sign on in the morning. In the afternoon to the London Ballet at the Lyric H'smith. I am amazed that Peter Schaefuss dances with them. They seemed laughably third-rate to me.

In the evening to 'Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid', with Roy. A one-joke film, and tho' it's a funny joke, it naturally palls before the end. Roy is not satisfactory as a companion, since he always says 'I don't mind' whatever you suggest!

Thursday December 9 1982

To Chez Solange wine bar to meet Simon before we go to 'Pyjama Game' at RADA. It's such a relief to be able to express my love for K. without being misunderstood. I think I would have gone mad without him. When one's heart has really gone out to someone, you either have to have them with you or talk about them to someone else, or - you go mad.

'Pyjama Game' was really rather good. Except for the leading man and woman. Simon said the girl captured exactly the smug lethargic '50s quality. It had a lot of energy and go. Dear Penny Cherns, directed her. And there was Crispin Redman, in the chorus. He got one very good laugh, wordlessly. He didn't come up to the green-room.

Sunday December 12 1982

I wonder what K. would say if he knew how often I'd spent a Sat. or sun. alone, because, ever since he went away, I've kept them free on the off-chance that he might turn up. Oh the treat foods I've bought and wasted.

Well, today he did. He rang just after lunch, came round about quarter past five and left at 7.15. He came to London on the 1.10 on Friday, but didn't get here until 7.0 because of a bomb scare! He went out with Janet, and took her to Magno's, arriving at 11.30 without booking and got a table just in time for last orders. Oh he does live a dangerous life. Last night they went to see 'Gandhi' - which he described as 'a knockout' - well, almost everybody will be knocked out, it's a big middlebrow-highbrow film on an unimportant subject, so.... After they went to 'a hamburger joint just round the corner, where there was this acrobat guy on a trapeze.' I am intrigued by this. Did you have to duck all through the meal? If not where is this tall building?

Monday December 13 1982

To Edo Japanese exhibition at the British Museum. I enjoyed it as much as any. Jap. things had much influence on Victorian things, so there you are. With Ron. B. Very nice, a bit boring.

Tuesday December 14 1982

Took Keith Gilbey to the Cafe des Amis for lunch. He's a wary boy, who's had a hard life. He gave me three or four scripts, all of which have merits. One is really good, a straight Pinteresque play.

Thursday December 16 1982

Antonia Bird, the joint director of the Royal Court Theatre Upstairs, came to dinner, because she's directing Roy's play, who's staying here by the way. She's a black-haired white-skinned handsome young woman, rather heavily built, and with a rather discontented expression that spoils her looks. I saw at once that I could not disagree with her about anything, and that she has a closed mind. She is also tarred with the 'Oh I wish I were working-class' brush. OH dear, I don't think she's a very good director. Poor Roy. She'll never ask me back.

Friday December 17 1982

K. arrived in London yesterday, rang me at 1.30, and reduced me to complete hysterics. 'Well, I thought I'd come and see you , but I've got to go to Badminton tomorrow, and perhaps I'll be able to come on Sunday, tho' then I won't have got your present, and I've got to get Janet's, wait a minute, if I - well, would you.' I don't think he was stoned, because I don't think he smokes much when he's with Janet. I tried suggesting a few arrangements, but he simply could not get his days arranged ahead - it was too much for him! Oh dear. I haven't made it as funny as it was. I said, 'You go off to Badminton, and see what that does'.

Went in the evening to the first of 'The Slab Boys Tilogy'. Brilliant. A wonderful perf. from Billy MacColl, small, noble brow, curious stillness, dazzling comedy overlaying a painful saintliness.

Saturday December 18 1982

Second part of 'Slab Boys' slightly less good, because the entirely naturalistic convention was partly abandoned for double sets and conversations. Still, it and the third this evening, were just as brilliantly acted. Billy MacColl gave a great performance.

Sunday December 19 1982

K. rang at 5.0. 'We'll have our Christmas next Tuesday.'

Thursday December 23 1982

To B'mouth K. to L'pool.

Tuesday December 28 1982

To London. K. arrived 4.45, and left at 10.0. Heavenly, and yes, we are closer still. He let himself in with his key. I think he does realise now what it means to me, to let anyone have the key. I never have before. He gave me two bits of my present, another bit to come. One bit was a new ice-bucket. Of course I needed a new one anyway, but he partly gave me it, because he light-heartedly chucked the old one up the stairs, with rather cracking results. But the other bit of the present, was a photo of myself in 'Visiting Day', which he had ordered from the files five or six weeks ago. That touched me. 'Now', I said, firmly, 'no nonsense. You get Roy to sign it, and you sign it, both with love to Angus, otherswise Sotheby's will think I waited at the stage- door.

Then he told me about his Christmas. It's the first time he's come back to his home really changed. Oh dear, it was even worse than the change I'd imagined. He arrived on the doorstep, laden with special presents and success and modesty about both. After all he has just earned in six months more than double what his father has ever earned in a year. (Well, there!) of course he expected, quite rightly, special treatment, even if it had been adverse. What he got was pallid suburban apathy. Nobody seemed to appreciate his presents - just to illustrate one of them, he'd bought his mother an electric toaster, because she now finds the grill hard to manage with her arthritic hands, and had specially found a narrow one that would stand on one particularl ledge of her small kitchen. I mean, for instance, he hadn't bought great big stupid lavish useless presents for them all, to show off. Within two or three minutes, without them asking after the show or his music let alone his difficulties, they were all sitting speechless in front of the television. He said his father had turned into a real nag-boy. Nigel drove him mad - well, he would, they're as divided by age as they ever will be. When K. is 32 and N. is 25, there won't be any difference. He was very funny describing Nigel in the shower. He wouldn't let K. in. K. said, 'But I want to do a poo'. 'No', said N. K. said, 'Oh, come on. We used to cross our pee over the lav. so open up.' In the end N. did rush and open the door, and rush back behind the shower-curtain. K. noticed he was growing some pubes - that's why. Ah!

Anyway the end of it all was that he turned tail and ran after only two nights, leaving on Christmas night! I told him then why, and revealed to him that his home was no longer his home in the sense of being a refuge. They would take refuge in him. They can't imagine his life and he knows all too much about theirs. In fact he mustn't take his problems to them, as it will only worry them and upset him, and so on. Which is why I have offered him my home and protection.

I have him three rather beautiful bow ties and a black kimono, a genuine one, and other little bits and pieces. We had great fun and tempers trying to tie the ties. I must describe him soon, or he'll get older.

Thursday December 30 1982

To the Night of San Lorenzo alone. Although it was nothing like my war, it recalled the feeling more vividly than any.

Friday December 31 1982

To Cafe des Amis with S. A good way to finish the year.

Wednesday January 5 1983

Great depression. Went to ghastly 'Gandhi' with Ron B and a girl who wouldn't drink. I'd booked a table. They cried off at the very last minute. Well, that is that.

Thursday January 6 1983

Dear little Crispin Redman to dinner. He is a gentle intelligent boy. I don't quite know what will happen to him in today's theatre. He is so diffident he's almost full of himself.

Sunday January 9 1983

Two lost days of greyness. Broken by meeting S. for lunch. I think I ought to give up everybody else except Simon and Kevin. Steven Mann to dinner in the evening. No, he's never going to unbutton. He's just going to wither.

Wednesday January 12 1983

Little Paul Ryan arrived. He's jolly. Liz Romilly came round, and I now realise she is half way round the twist. She made a couple of critical remarks to Paul R. who's only 16, which would have been unforgivable unless she was dotty. Her opening remark was that her period pains had made her late. We went off to the Grand Cirque, she insisted on coming too and then left at the interval without saying she was going. So that's it. The show was very special. Theatre full, audience cheered.

Thursday January 13 1983

Entertained the child by taking him to Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Windy City in the evening. The first I'd seen before, and the second was much enjoyed by the 35-40 year old married couples who were obviously going on to appear on a Bruce Forsyth game show.

Saturday January 15 1983

Rang Janet to ask her out. K's having a bad time apparently, and asked her to go up last weekend. But they're not meeting this one, because he can't get down. Poor boy. I envy Janet hearing his troubles.

In the evening to the Barrintons, - and Jo XX. She was absolutely as usual, and doesn't seem to feel she's failed in friendship at all.

Sunday January 16 1983

Rang K. at the digs to hear he was at Granada. Of course he's working up to the big number. It's so good I'm going to be there for the one he minds most about. He was very sweet. Janet's still here, and dines with me on Tues.

Tuesday January 18 1983

Lunch with Keith Gilbey at Chez Solange Wine Bar, and then to film 'Still of the Night' - goodish. Keith will have to relax to get somewhere. But there is something reluctantly charming about him.

Nearly a disaster with Janet. Plummer's changed its address a little while ago. I couldn't remember the name of the street where it actually was, and took the address of the old restaurant out of the 'phone book, and gave it to Janet. We missed one another for 20 mins, but all was well in the end. I enjoyed myself, no doubt partly because I could talk legitimately about K. all night! but I like her. I also prophesy that in ten years time, or less, he will wonder what on earth he saw in her.

Thursday January 20 1983

To the King's Head to see 'Mr Cinders'. Second half charming, Dennis Lawson very good. He is the show. Met Julian More after 30 years. Haven't heard from K. about coming up. I don't I can't write, about my despair, my misery.

Sunday January 23 1983

Oh, how could he let a stranger in the digs tell me he didn't want me to come.

Tuesday January 25 1983

Ken Branagh took me charmingly and still rather gauchely out to dinner at Berovellis's, which is still much the same. I'm still not sure about him. Nevertheless I enjoy his company. but oh god these have been black days.

Wednesday January 26 1983

Dorothy's 70th birthday. How extraordinary. And my gloom was utterly broken up by K. ringing at 10.30. He has had a really really bad time. He couldn't tell me quite how, but, for example, he had to sack a sound engineer - he was recording the 17 minute number from ep. 6. Obviously something has gone very wrong, tho' not I think directly with him or his work. I mean, nobody seems to have complained of his actual music. (The only bad lapse on his part was when he called a lot of musicians and singers for 8.30, over-slept and got there at 10.0. It is sad prejudice that he would get far more odium for that than, for instance, I would, because he looks more careless.) I wish he could tell me all about it, - it would 'cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart'.

As if this trouble weren't enough, he picked up a takeaway on his way home, took it back to the car, a man came over, knocked on the window, K. rolled it down, the man hit him in the face, and knocked him out. Poor little boy, when he was already wretched.

Saturday January 29 1983

One of the nights of my life. K. and Janet came to dinner. I suddenly saw him set against Janet, and realised that he was proud of me, and really pleased to be able to bring her here. I also saw him sense that he had much more in common with me than with her, without bringing it right to the surface of his mind. The most brutal example of this was her attitude to music. He had obviously put one of his favourites, 'Rickie Lee Jones' cassette on in the car. Silly of him, you can't listen suddenly, seriously, to an artist of any substance for the first time, while driving. All the same, it was even sillier of her to say, 'Well, if I like something, I listen to it, listen to it till I'm tired of it, and never her it again.' this to a professional musician!

Then we had an argument about something, no, a discussion, and J. kept missing the entire point, trying to put forward the previous step in the argument. His eyes flicked to mine. I am realising every time we meet, that he notices finer shades each time. He said he was looking forward to coming back to London, 'to catch up', in the theatre and film and on the pop scene.

Otherwise I must emphasise I liked Janet as much as ever, a nice cosy guest. But, if she deals with him as she did tonight, inviting me to laugh at him, it won't last as I still hope it might. She's too bossy with him.

Sunday January 30 1983

To lunch with Simon at Boswell's, at corner of Redcliffe Gdns and Old Brompton. Sat in restaurant after v. large gin and Martini till 4.30. Danced and kissed a bit. Utterly drunk to bed at 6.0.

A wreck.

Tuesday February 1 1983

To 'Romantic Comedy' with Sylvia Coleridge. The car Rupert Everett had thought of providing, didn't materialise, so Simon arranged one himself. I picked Sylvia up at Broadcasting House, and off we went. Theatre got up v. well, same designer as Duke of York's. All very prospering. Play fairly respectable light comedy - Simon a trifle heavy on it. I fear he resists the kind of play. Pauline C. very skilful, but a bit mutton dressed as lamb. Otherwise an agreeable evening. They dropped me off, as I had an early call.

Wednesday February 2 1983

K. rang 7.15. I said 'I suppose you're going to congratulate me on my 'Doctor Who', 'No', he said, 'I'm going to tell you I missed it.' I'm glad really. In the evening Jamie Muir and Kate Harwood came to dinner. He's the producer of Channel 4 and also does some South Bank shows. I liked him v. much. Her not so much, she's silly and pretentious, and speaks without thinking. I was sharp with her. I think he rather liked that.

Saturday February 5 1983

To 'Hard Feelings' at the Bush. rather good comedy of manners - young people sharing a house in Brixton. Very recognisable, good acting standard.

Monday February 7 1983

Roy impinges very little. I hope he makes more impression on life. I think he's been limp about 'Care'. He rang K. and I spoke. 'When I come back to London, let's do a week of plays.'

Wednesday February 9 1983

Today and yesterday my silly telly.

Thursday February 10 1983

Rang K. about Roy's first n. He was feeling rotten with 'flu, got bad cough and very woozy. It upset me thoroughly, for when I said 'Oh I wish I could come up and look after you', he said wearily, 'Well, I wish someone would.' Oh, at least he'll be nearer.

Friday February 11 1983 Saturday February 12 1983

K. rang at 11.45, just getting a train. Still feeling awful. 'Can I come straight to you?' 'Oh, that'd make my day'. So he arrived, looking washed out and blurred, lay on the sofa and ate and drank, and got a bit better. His hand feels all funny. Off we went eventually to the first night of 'Care'. As flat as a pancake. No tension in the house at all. Acting rather good. Production v. poor. When he pulled the poor child from under the stairs wrapped in polythene and put it in the dustbin, I just thought, 'Ah yes'. No go. The notices were mild and flat like the evening. K. coughed badly all thro' the evening which didn't help. After, at Le Gourmet, he got iller and iller, his temperature visibly mounting. Happily Janet, who'd been in the studio, turned up and took him home. He was so bad he actually forgot his case with all his music, papers etc. I felt for Roy and the flat evening. He didn't seem to mind, but then he never does.

My second visit on Saturday to see Crispin in 'Not quite Jerusalem' at RADA. On Thur. he said it was poor etc. I now realise he always says that. He was very good. I preferred the whole thing to the R.C. except the girl, except the girl. E t g. Roy came with me and went back to Manchester to play football!

In the evening to Janet's for dinner. Again new surroundings. Bounds Green, an area of terraced houses like M. Road. Hers typical in lay-out, if not in decor. Sitting-room very dark blue all over. I liked it. Would-be 'exotic' furniture and cushions. Quite successful. He opened the door to me. Wonderfully welcoming, he got me a gin and tonic at once. Other guest was Judy Holt, who, I've decided, I only quite like. Conversation animated and proey. J. literally can't cook. Had done first course which was cold. K. had done main course, which was beef cass. really and very eatable. I suppose he'd never done it for me, because of mine. (Oh, shall I ever forget the time he made a dish out of sweet corn and rice and the cup-up beef roast, and it tasted of nothing. I ate it bravely to the accompaniment of his flushed outbursts of rage at having made a fool of himself!)

An evening like many I've had, all properly managed, and plenty to drink. Another fearful blunder by Janet. Two dreary young cousins of hers had come in after dinner, talk was general. As K. went out for more coffee, she called, 'Why don't you put on your new tape as background?' It was the latest numbers from Studio. Oh dear. As it got later, I saw K., who had seemed all right at first, start to get blurred as his temperature went up.

Thursday February 17 1983

I got his 'flu, and saw. I've never felt like it. To see bank-manager on Tuesday. Bad.

Nigel Greaves and Amanda Bairstow to dinner. A lovely evening. Both real charmers.

Friday February 18 1983

He rang to say he was back in London for good, and was going to look for a flat.

Sunday February 20 1983

Simon goes to Prague to have a fitting for 'Amadeus'. I cannot write down how often I ring him and pour out my unhappiness. What could I say? I've tried that in the past, and always torn the pages out.

Monday February 21 1983

K. rang at 9.30 to ask me to go and see about his flat tomorrow.

Janet rang about his birthday on Saturday. Would I come with them to the theatre and supper? Of course I'm pleased for myself, but surely surely there's something wrong, three's company etc. Perhaps she senses that I understand him and she doesn't, and it'll be better if I'm there? It can hardly be other than a rather odd even.

Tuesday February 22 1983

Met K. at Tutton's. I'd said, 'Well, let's have lunch. He said, 'Oh, yes, that's what you do in London.' (he once said, last summer, that I was the nicest person to have a meal with, ever.) We had a really happy funny lunch, and went off to see the agent in Finchley somewhere. He'd got the flat out of Time Out. The advert looked suspicious, but turned out well. As we drove up to the agents - I in my suit, looking creditworthy, he'd said the agent had been a bit miffy about a possible mortgage, he went a bit red, and said, 'I, er, I told him you were my guardian.'

We met the agent, a bit of a creep. At one point, I outlined K's achievements in the last six months, and his earnings. He reached for the mortgage forms at once. K. was scarlet. He said after, 'You were marvellous. I didn't realise what I'd done till I heard you say it.' Having set all in train, off we went to the flat itself, in a quite possible street near Holloway Red., only two mins from the tube, newly planted trees in the streets, the houses are typical 3-storey terrace, his is newly-converted into three flats. His would be on the first floor. Newly-carpeted stairs. His front door opens onto passage. First door on left into good-sized sitting-room with two big windows, light and sunny. to the right in the L, is the kitchen - good solid kitchen fitments, stainless steel sink, connection for 'fridge and cooker done properly. Good solid doors throughout. Back in the passage, next door is what would be a very small bedroom, but will make a perfect music room, and can be cheaply sound-proofed. Back on the landing, down five steps, which makes it more interesting, to a good new bathroom, and a nice-sized very light very quiet bedroom. The heating is Serrowarm gas. The whole place has nothing of a conversion about it, no hint of divided rooms, and all done well. It's the best of the three, we went round the others. £26,000. I'm very pleased.

Altogether a wonderful day. Even my imagination had not got as far as the 'guardian' remark. He trusts me, he really trusts me in something as important as this.

Wednesday February 23 1983

Simon Shepherd and his designer wife to dinner. Alix is tall, rather beautiful and a really sweet woman gave her D's red hat! Simon is a dear, but alas is one of those who isn't like what he looks like. Married v. happily at 23, is always being cast for Alfred Douglas and Dorian Gray and various assorted gays. I don't suppose he'll do much when he looks 90.

Thursday February 24 1983

Roy back, and came round with Sue Bird and Ian Heseltine, that carpenter, whom I think, a bit of a clamping bore. Amiable but a bore. It was odd to see Sue again, without K. I like her - I think she'll be eccentric later. She said she was right off K. - he had, for instance, never thanked her for the cottage at Brecon. Now that's quite possible, but I've never known K. do anything really despicable. There would be a reason. As I wrote to him, it's the way he's made. If you have the power he has to feel intensely, that is enough reason, (not excuse) for forgetting. I'll see what he says.

Friday February 25 1983

He came round about six to go to the Dr. Who party. He was wearing a yellow-khaki shirt, a bandolier belt of bullets, wide Spahi like trousers narrowing to anklets, with the side-pockets line in scarlet with big metal buttons.

We got there fairly early and were separated. Dinah Sheridan arrived and as we chatted, she said, pointing to K. on the other side of the room, 'Who's that? You know him? Introduce him.' There, you see, he's a star. He had quite a good talk with the chaps from the Radio phonic Workshop. On our way out, as I always feel awful after parties, insincere and empty and stale, I gave a great roar of disgust in the empty passage. I suddenly realised he understood completely. Do you know, apart from anything else, that boy is much subtler than I thought. How could I have missed it?

Saturday February 6 1983

K. is 22 today. I gave him his presents yesterday since we were meeting in the West End today. I gave him a hologram, and a slightly holographic pendant and box. I think he was really thrilled - it should go brilliantly with his new flat. It is not, as it were, a joke one, of some object deliberately chosen for its three-dimensional qualities. This would quickly pall. It seemed to me to be the beginning of the art of the hologram, an array of coloured wires, an abstract, in fact, by Lou Moore.

Anyway, tonight we met in Rumours. They were half an hour late of course. Looking at Janet's appearance, I'm not surprised. Her make-up was as usual, extremely heavy, a dark base, loaded with shadow and blusher, the eye-make-up in thick brown and red, great rhomboidal shapes imposed on the eyes. She was wearing a species of white harem suit, topped off with a Spanish/Mexican round hat on top of a great scarf of silver tissue, down nearly to her waist on both sides. He was wearing her birthday present, a tunic made of chamois leather pieces, so joined together that they looked as if they weren't. He looked a bit like a skinned rabbit in it. She took us to the Criterion to the Dario Fo now in its third take-over cast. Oh dear! And we had to run thro' the streets to get there. Then we went to Joe Allen's, rather dreary on a Saturday night, no one there, I knew. A slightly uncomfortable night for me. I wonder if they know how ill-suited they are!

Tuesday March 1 1983

Met K. at 6.30 at the Classic in Tottenham Court Rd. to see two films he missed - Chariots of Fire and 'Gregory's Girl'. He thoroughly enjoyed both, and made sensible and perceptive comments. I learn something more about him every time, and tonight was no exception. We went to the Cafe des Amis, and he suddenly started to tell me his concern over nuclear arms and war. As he went on, I obviously needn't recount his arguments, I became so moved that tears ran down my cheeks. I forgot the people round us as he said, 'Nobody will hear my music in a hundred years time. I give us another ten years.' My pain was for him, only for him, and I had no answer, no reason why he should not despair. 'That you, the best, the brightest, should feel like this, is terrible to me'. That was the best I could say.

Possibly he was surprised and a little helped, that I agreed with him.

'It's you I mind about', I kept saying.

Wednesday March 3 1983

K. rang at 11.0 to say he was going to Badminton. Asked twice if I'd got the number.

Jo Tewson to dinner with Prim. A great success.

Thursday March 14 1983

Keith Gilbey at Chez Solange. To Yol, walked out after half an hour. Shall I see him again?

Saturday March 5 1983

Rang K. at B'minton, cut me off as at lunch. Said he would ring back. Bet he won't.

He didn't.

Sunday March 6 1983

I've felt like suicide today. I walk up and down saying this is awful, and feel real panic, as if something were going to snap. I can't see any future in any direction. I try to cry, and sometimes succeed. It's still only five o'clock, and there are hours to go till I shan't sleep again. What am I going to do with my life and my ha! ha! career?

11.10 p.m.

K has just rung. He's back. And he's rowed with Janet already. It seems he didn't ring Janet either. Unlike me, she was cross. Doesn't she realise that he forgets everything when he's in a studio? And B'minton is nothing else but. The recording is tomorrow.

Monday March 7 1983

To rehearse Wayne's Dad for the recording this aft. and tomorrow. Amanda Bairstow is a darling, and there's a nice man called Peter Hagan, who's very pleasant. Off we went to a rather sleazy studio in Camberwell? Dulwich? run as it turned out by John Halpin, one of the group from that Play for Today I did ten years or so ago. I hadn't been in a recording-studio for 20 years, and all has changed. K. didn't tell me a thing. I kept my ears open, so when someone said 'Cans on'. I waited to see what happened, and was only 30 seconds late in putting on my headphones. By the end of the day I was saying 'Are we laying down that track first?' with the best of them. Immensely impressed with K. again. Authority and charm together, admits mistakes, leaves room for other people's contributions, and corrects mistakes in a way that makes one more likely to get it right next time, and work - he seems quite tireless.

Tuesday March 8 1983

Same again.

K. tried to make it up with Janet afterwards but was too tired and had to cancel the effort. He wanted me to go to the Abbey National with him about the mortgage, but he said, 'Don't bother. it's only to get a form.'

Wednesday March 9 1983

It was important. He's got the mortgage. Oh I'm so relieved and pleased. He'll have something behind him.

Thursday March 10 1983

Susan Worth came to coffee. She is an odd woman. For a start, she'd marry me tomorrow if I asked her. For a go on, she's a sentimental ass. But I'm fond of her, for old times' sake. She talked quite resentfully of Julian. Oh dear, he is an ass, too.

Off to an idiotic commercial, and then to lunch with K. at Tutton's. Every meeting is a step forward. We had an utterly satisfying talk. He is extraordinary at showing his acceptance of some point of mine without saying so. I can't believe it, how far we've got. I must never say I have nothing to live for.

He meets Janet to try and make it up at 5.0 tomorrow. I do hope they do, but I doubt it.

Pat Sandys came to dinner, with the Draycotts. I think they felt it to be a very successful evening. I didn't, as it chances, enjoy it much, perhaps partly because Pat S. said could we have a pause after the main course. I said yes, I like that, let me know when you want the pudding. three-quarters of an hour went by! I'd forgotten I was having dinner!

Friday March 11 1983

Simon and I went to September. I talked non-stop about K. Simon was marvellous to me. He's another reason for living.

K. says he's writing me an important letter.

Saturday March 12 1983

K. at Rendezvous Studio today, 'mixing' the record we made on Mon and Tuesday. He rang at 11.0 p.m. They started at 2.0, and haven't finished! Sweet of him to ring. I bet he hasn't eaten. I said 'What about Janet?' ‘It was bad with Janet’, he said.

'Care' closed tonight, having made little or no impact.

Sunday March 13 1983

Picked up at 11.30 by dear Sheila Ruskin, such an attractive wry girl. We got on an amused treat. She was driving me to Gwen Cherrell's for Sunday lunch. Oh god. And it was a stand-up one, with quite a lot of dreary neighbours. Gwen's garden is a horror, ascending rockeries of paralysing tidiness, no plant taller than two inches. It's no use, I hate these parties, and I had to come back on the train. Home by 5.30, not wanting my dinner.

Monday March 14 1983

The video arrived this morning, for his programmes.

Went to see the film of 'Privates on Parade'. Thought the original play rather crude and making his points with a sledge-hammer, but it had a serious point to make. Which the film has completely disguised. Quite amusing in patches.

K. rang at 6.15. He and Janet are finished. When he went round, she lectured him for an hour and a half - you see? and he left her, having first quoted what his headmaster said!

Tuesday March 15 1983

We met at Tutton's at 6.45. The preview of Studio was today. He was much interviewed, but most of the press had left by the afternoon and didn't see his big 17-minute no in Ep. 6. He seemed to me slightly to be trying to make it sound a better reception than it had really been. I cannot believe it'll go. Oh dear.

I took him to Tom Stoppard's 'The Real Thing'. He loved it, was quite carried away by the wit and the clever staging. Wouldn't go round. We went on to Magno's. There he went one further again, but telling me why he didn't, as he calls it, 'rate' Mozart. Bach is his god, and, well, need I go on? But he argued it passionately and well. And no doubt will thrill with horror in ten years (or less) at dismissing Mozart, Mozart! But oh wonderful it is that he's talking to me about music, and setting strutting before me his youthful ideas and dreams and absurdities and glories.

Thursday March 17 1983

Met K. at Bounds Grn. station to go to the solicitor to look at the lease.

Told him that his name wasn't mentioned in TV Times and that there was an adverse preview in Time Out. He was in real agony for a time, and who can wonder? Went and rang Granada. Oh dear, presage of more misery, I know. We went to the solicitor at Enfield. A very pleasant youngish man called Butcher. We went through the lease - I picked out a clause forbidding TV radio or any instrument except between 8 and 11.0. I said, 'Apart from K. being a musician, this is ridiculous. No judge would uphold a clause that prevented you watching TV when it was still available to the public.' So that was good. At one point K. gave a sketch of his future to the solicitor, 'Look, I'm going to be based in London, working in the theatre. I shan't get married before I'm thirty.' The solicitor's eyes and mine met, and we decided not to smile.

We went to look at the flat again, and then to lunch at The Bank in Upper St. He paid. Ah. In the evening to 'Crystal Clear' with the Draycotts Terribly over-rated. Very thin. Rather poorly acted. To Chez Solange winebar. D's at each other a bit.

Friday March 18 1983

Rang K. 6.15. Quite bemused. Still going to write me 'that letter'. Can't wait. I need a letter about our friendship and what he thinks.

Saturday March 19 1983

We spent most of the day together. He said, 'Why do you so often look away when you talk to me?' Ah, why? Mine eyes dazzle. To see 'Tanzi' again. That's three times. God, what I do for my friends. Neil v. good. His last night. Told us not to come round, which miffed K. considerably, as well it might.

Before, in the bar, read K. a bit of the Nicolson. He said later, 'When you read me that bit, I just melted.' He did.

He is coming here to watch the programmes, with just me. That will be a comfort to him - he will see it differently if he sees it with me.

But of course to me, it's one of the most moving things that has ever happened to me. The trust is heart-shaking.

I love that boy as I have loved nobody in my life but Dorothy and Simon.

Sunday March 20 1983

To Simon's at 1.30, and to Jake's for lunch, which only the other day was Foxtrot Quango. Quite differently arranged upstairs and rather better. I'm rather better, too. I still talk about K. too much, but I'm not as desperate as I was.

Ken Branagh drove round at 4.0 and we went to the Minema to see 'the Draughtman's Contract.' Well, of course it's pretentious, but it didn't irritate me. It was rather beautiful in its way.

Wednesday March 23 1983

All went wrong last night, or nearly all. He came round, dinner was ready, he'd brought his own recorder as well, after all. But he couldn't get it to work, and in some way made my recorder go all funny. Finally to my horror and upset, he said we'd got to go back to his place. A nightmare drive. And a ruined evening for me, - I got much drunker than I meant to.

But, but, worst of all, the programme was even worse than the script. It's a complete failure. I suppose I must try and be glad our friendship is strong enough to survive such a disastrous evening.

Later on, very drunk, he made me record on tape, how to make my steak casserole.

He admitted the show was bad.

And it was Andrew Lloyd-Webber's birthday.

Wednesday March 23 1983

To Neil's to do the garden, but it was wet, so just had lunch and talked. He is a dear dear chap. I sometimes worry that he will be unstable. I am sure he will have a big drink or drugs problem at some point. He'll leave Lynda at another. Oh dear. He wants me to plant creepers for his new fence. I said honeysuckle, clematis montana, the russian vine, ivy. So we'll get them next time.

Thursday March 24 1983

K. rang about 12.0. Could we go to 'Crystal clear' another time? He'd seen an advert for a synthesizer, only £999. 'They're usually two or three grand, and I've been and tried it and it's great.' And I said, 'And it's a rule that new toys must be played with at least once'. 'Exactly', he said, 'and Janet has cancelled Saturday, so we could go then.' I was glad not to have to see it again, but felt low at an empty evening. I couldn't resell the tickets. But the dear little thing.

Saturday March 26 1983

Arranged to meet K. at that pub just round from Leicester Sq. tube. Got there, it was closed. I couldn't work it out, until, after a while, I realised that there was a big international soccer match on, and I suppose they're sick of sick and chairs being thrown through the window and so on. K. tooted, and I got in the car - it was 8.25, the theatre, the Arts, was just round the corner. It took us so long to find a parking-place that we were nearly twenty minutes late. Another first for Kevin, - I haven't been late for a theatre for a - well, ever. I don't mean I blame him. It's just that, but for him, I wouldn't be out on a Saturday night in a car.

'Decadence' is an extraordinarily fascinating entertainment, acted with bravura brilliance by Berkoff and the girl - I never got a programme - another first. It is an indictment of upper-class modes and manners, but, like all obsessional pieces, it ends by suggesting to you that the author is really fascinated by, and not scornful of, the object he is satirising. I think it rather surprised K. who's seen so little, and certainly very little fringe or experimental work.

After, we went to Chez Solange. I was rather shaken by his telling me that the letter I've been waiting for so eagerly, has been written to someone else! I felt sick for a minute - it seemed like being shut out. He wrote it to Glyn Alcock, his school friend. He's in the RAF, and the moment he got the letter, he rang and said he'd got two days leave and was coming down.

As he went on talking, I began to feel better. The letter was about nuclear war, not about friendship. He told me what he'd put in it. 'He's my age, he's got no future either.' I do see that.

'I think you and Glyn are my only real friends.' Probably true. I'd written him that, if he found half a dozen people in his life, who understood what he meant when he spoke, he'd be lucky.

'Time is Running Out' has been given to Patricia McNaughton.

So Glyn gets the letter and episode 2. Ah well. Oh dear. I sometimes hate myself.

Sunday March 27 1983

To Neil and Lynda's for dinner. Really one of the most delightful evenings I've ever had. Jeremy Nicholas and his girl-friend, and a rather beautiful dark girl who had a brain. An actress as well. We had a good talk, and lovely food. The whole party came together well. Gracious, sounds like an orgy. Lynda has turned out an excellent hostess.

J.N.'s girl-friend is really interested in money, but is young enough still to hide it.

Tuesday March 29 1983

Watched Episode 2. By Bob Mason. No better. Marginally less ridiculous, but equally ill- constructed and ill-prepared. No one can follow it, apart from the utter lack of reality. Surely it is going to be a complete flop. Neil rang up appalled, and said they'd turned it off after twenty minutes. He couldn't believe it when I told him that there was to be another series.

I don't believe it.

Wednesday March 30 1983

Rang K. about 12.0. He was in the bath, but they have a 'phone in the bathroom! Absurd. I said I hoped he hadn't minded me not 'phoning last night. 'Not at all', he said, rather too quickly to please me. 'Well, I didn't, because I was too cross, and didn't want to be angry to you.' 'What were you cross about?' 'I thought the programme was awful.' 'Did you?' he said, 'I thought it was brilliant'. 'In that case', I snapped, 'we'd better not talk about it again.' 'No', he said, 'we'd better not.' and I rang off.

Then I had plunged myself into such fierce pain as I haven't felt for years. I am trembling as I think of it. It seemed as if I was on the edge of a cliff - if I went over, there would be no Kevin and no life. I did not cry. I walked up and down, groaning and speaking in the agony of feeling divided from him, not just by a quarrel, but by a real artistic disagreement, complicated by my utter conviction that the series is rubbish apart from his music, that he is being perhaps dishonest in thinking it good, simply because he's part of it, perhaps simply has bad judgment. But mainly it showed me what I could suffer if we were divided - I looked into a frightful chasm of loneliness and suffering, such as I'd forgotten.

I rang back. I made it all right. 'I couldn't bear to feel we were divided.' 'Oh, we couldn't be', he murmured. On rows and makings up, he is unusually mature. He genuinely hates rows. 'Of course we'll talk of it.

It occurs to me now that one of the reasons why he said it was brilliant, is because it's by Bob Mason, who he likes, whose lyrics he admires, and who he is committed to. And Glyn, Bernard and Joe were all there, living it up.

Out with Prim to a Portuguese restaurant near her. A lot of unusual fish. Excellent, and a charming Portuguese guitarist. In great spirits after such a frightening moment.

Thursday March 31 1983 Friday April 1 1983

It also occurs to me that they were all stoned out of their minds while watching, but perhaps not.

He's gone off to B'minton, but this morning he rang at 11.0, to say how was I placed tonight, because Joe Cavanagh (the great Joe) was up with his flat-mate, Bernard Davis, and wanted a bed. As Phil and he were both to be away, I couldn't see why they didn't stay there, but he couldn't explain obviously in front of people. I said ‘give them yr. key, and explain the room, in case I'm out.' 'One could have the sofa, the other the bed' 'Yes' I said. They arrived about 11.30. B.D. is tall, cadaverous, gauche and shy. Joe is a thin-faced, warm, a very thick L'pool accent - his lips and jaw scarcely move at all - rather wise about people, but not about himself. Might well be as gifted as K. says. K. always puts Joe miles about him as a composer, 'but I shall have to carry him with me.' We sat up talking till about 3.30. Joe came back out of the bedroom to say, 'Any chance of a snack?' I was able grandly to reveal the cold chicken and sausages I'd kept for them.

Of course I drew Joe out about K. He said 'I've heard such a lot about you and all good.' I would give a lot to know how he describes me and the flat. I said 'What do you think I've done for him? What's he got from me?' Joe said, 'Personal security'.

Tuesday April 5 1983

Watched the 3rd episode. Awful. I had to keep turning the sound off I was crawling with embarrassment.

Wednesday April 6 1983

K. rang in the morning to say that he'd got back last night from Badminton, and had taken the tape of the new numbers to Bob Mason. While he was there and playing it over, actually at that moment, the 'phone rang. It was June to say that the second series had been cancelled, and that the present one would now go out at 10.30, instead of 9.0. I knew it. 'So four of the best songs I've ever written are just rubbish.' I felt so inadequate - a young man's first big disappointment, the first time he realises that all is not to go smoothly, that everyone isn't devoted to art as he is but I can't go on - it is too bitter for the poor boy.

I have always known it would be a complete failure, but I couldn't have stopped him doing it, could I? And, if they had expanded the music instead of contracting it, it might, but no, with those ghastly misbegotten scripts, never. I am amazed at June Howson.

I said what I could. Then wrote to him; I thought what can I offer him? Is there anything I could do? So I said I'd leave everything to him. Probably there'll be nothing, but I wanted to do the very utmost to prove to him at this, the lowest point of his career so far, that I still believed in him completely as a person and as an artist.

Oh, I could kill those stupid idiots at Granada for discouraging such a bright fine talent. I surround him with love.

Thursday April 7 1983

D. has been dead for six years.

Rang K. at 7.0. He was cooking my casserole from my tape. Now that's good. He'd made himself do a proper meal, which he might never do if he were busy and happy.

He didn't seem too low, but he must have had a bad night on Tuesday.

To dear John N. for this night. It is a help, and the familiarity is so soothing.

I have no child And never thought That that could change But now I'm not so sure. Was it out of the blue Or was it planned That there he was To take my hand And drag me into the new.

Alight with light He comes bursting in Not trying for a change Just living life, Just now, just this, Let's try, let's see, how strange.

Bright with his brightness He asks so much With never a doubt I won't connect Just going on, Just that, just then, Let's look, let's feel, direct.

Laughing with laughter He overturns years, By simply believing in life Just live for the day Just when, just where, Let's live, let's love, no strife.

Kevin. 1983.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 46

April 8 '83 - May 26 '83.

Friday April 8 1983

He arrived about 3.30 after his lunch with Patricia. To get that out of the way, he said, "Well, I suppose I've got to trust her. She threw out 'Time is Running Out'. She says she's going to get some jingles to pay my mortgage", biting his nails in not altogether comic panic. He then started telling me about his new plans. David Kitchen had rung him about 'Heaven and Hell'. K. had told him of his disappointment, and David K. said, 'Give it eight hours, and then forget it.' Hm! I know what he means, but K. has his music to cherish which has been wasted. He produced the script of the 1st Act of 'Heaven and Hell' that David K. had just sent him. Also an idea of his own for a burlesque of 'Fame' called 'Shame.' (He must decide how funny it is to be, since he said he admired the film very much, otherwise it'll be the same muddle as Studio mut. mut.) As for 'Heaven and Hell', it is fairly promising in execution, he can write dialogue, and there's nothing that made me wince as in Studio. But oh dear Heaven Hell Satan and the Atom bomb. I just can see the manager's face. And it's thin, and he took four months to write it, even with K. pushing him, which doesn't augur well for him. But the idea - well, I've written to K. tonight, and suggested things. I think he knows D.K. is weak. He said, more than once, 'You're involved, too - get going.'

Then I said, 'Well, aren't you going to ask me about last week?' 'Last week?' 'When I had that unexpected etc. etc. When you wished those two guests on me?' 'Ohhh!' he said, 'Joe'. 'Yes', I said, 'Joe'. 'How did you get on?' I told him. He told me how they came to stay with me. He told me that Joe and Bernard stayed with Phil and him one night. The next night he and Phil were off to record in Badminton. Phil refused to allow them to stay while he was away. The flat is not self-contained, and he said it wouldn't be fair to the people downstairs whose house it is. K. said we could introduce Joe and Bernard to them. No said Phil. Awful, with its implication that J & B are not to be trusted. K. obviously went cold, and rang round four or five other friends, the sort of young people, who, I would have thought, let out their floors without even noticing. No go. He said, 'You certainly find out who your friends are.' I said, 'Why didn't you ring me straightaway?' He said strongly, 'No. I know I could have, but I didn't want to put it on you if I could find somewhere else. Phil rang round one or two friends, feeling guilty by now, also no go. So I produced my trump card and said "Well, of course, you can go to Angus." Actually I told them that before I rang you.' He laughed, and then looked at me with that glance that utterly removes any suggestion of taking me for granted in the wrong way. He knew he could count on me, and that's what I want. After the film, 'Airplane II', which mild fun, we went to RSS, which he liked a lot. He had Chevre aux Mille Feuilles and Salmon Trout.

He brought up my letter. It moved me a lot. But about your will - I can't cope with that. I can't think of you dying. But that commitment.... His face went red and his eyes shone.

'You shouldn't write such things.'

'Yes, I should. Once.'

I've never known anyone who died. And anyway I may die before you. And then there's the bomb - ten years at the most.'

'Yes.'

'But it's wonderful we are committed to each other like that.'

'Yes'.

'Well, we won't talk about it again. That's it.'

'Yes. I mean, No.'

We changed the subject. He asked after the Nicolson, we talked of it a bit. Then, 'Shall we do a show together? Like Flanders and Swann. Me one side with synthesizers and throat mikes, and you the other without anything'. I must say it's an extraordinary idea! I'm tempted to think of it. Has there ever been an act with 34 years between? And a bridge between such different cultures! I think I shall pursue this a little.

I tackled him about being so off-putting on the 'phone sometimes, just like D. Perhaps I always love people who... 'I like my friends to drop in, not ring, that black plastic thing - what's the point of ringing when I'm going to spend six or seven hours with you?' 'Well, I won't ring you at all, except when I must for arrangements.' 'No', he said, laughing and more than once, 'You're different, you're different'. He said it again later, so as to be quite sure.

He suddenly said, 'I feel much happier. You've made me feel happy'. That made me think of the series. He talked stumblingly of the failure. When I said, 'I don't want to grind it into the floor.' He said, in that utterly open way he has, 'No, do, go-on.' I told him I'd had to turn the sound off during ep. 3. - me, who hired a recorder specially for the series, and that there was a mention of it in the papers over the weekend. Then I really caught him on the raw without meaning to, when I said, 'Now, where does the big number come in ep. 6?' With his quickness, he said, 'Oh, is it as bad as that?" He saw at once that I'd meant my friends could only bear to watch the bare minimum. Again his face was hot and his eyes full. I said, 'It really isn't very good, you know.' Of course, he's clinging to a chance. He said, 'No. You were 100% right about that, as you've always been about everything'.

That's the second time he's said exactly that. We started to talk of his new flat, and got on to his little brother, Nigel, aged 14. All the generosity of his character came out in his telling me how he longed to have Nigel to stay, let him loose on London, meet some unusual people. 'I long for him to be sitting watching TV and you let yourself in - no, I'm in the bath and you ring the bell, and he has to let you and entertain you without having met you. That'll teach him.' And again, 'I think he has a bit of a dull life. Mum and Dad are a bit old for him, and Phil and I are away. I used to come away every summer down here as soon as I was 17. I want to give him that chance earlier. He'll meet my friends, I'll take him round to the sights, and then after 3 or 4 days, I'll throw him the keys and say well, I'm busy, get on with it. And if all he does is sit in front of the TV, he'd better go back to Liverpool.'

'I'm very fond of him really.'

Very sweet from a 22 year old to a 14 year old. I hope he may find the family ally he's still hoping for. Certainly N. looks more like him.

By this time we were driving back home ('do I mind driving you back home?' laughing). There was a long plaited whip in the back of the car. 'Well, Janet gave me that. But she never used that one on me. So it's clean.' 'Oh, I don't fancy that. ‘'Perhaps you've never tried it'. 'Of course I have, but it’s instant detumescence for me.' 'Ah, I like it'. 'On your back?' 'No, on my bum. Not to draw blood, of course'. No, correction, this bit of the conversation was on the way in. We returned to the subject on our more drunken way home. Did I hear him say - I don't think I'd ever have invented such a thing - 'I'd whip you, and you'd whip me. Then I'd have you, and - ' and he sort of hiccupped because he realised what he was saying. He'd probably do anything when roused. He was commenting on his own physique as being thin. 'You're well-built' he said. Well.

He also said the tape of the new songs he'd had to give to Patricia, because she'd suddenly asked for it. 'Well', I said, 'that's all right, - you'll get it back - I don't mind.' 'No', he said, 'I've got another at home. There'll always be one for you now.'

All through the day, there was, even above anything before, a new and complete open tenderness towards me that marked a turning-point in our friendship. It's all been said and is there and we can live on it.

Monday April 11 1983

K. rang at 7.20, just for a chat! 'I realised you might misunderstand what I'd said about ringing up, and I thought I like Angus ringing up.' So we chatted. He is perfect. Told him about Blood Brothers and the flat. 'Oh, yes, oh, no, not the flat, I'm seeing Peter Hagan. Oh golly. I haven't told you about the musical I'm doing with him for TVS.' 'Why not?' 'Well, it only happened today.' So it's only 'Blood Brothers.' Rang again at 7.45. Could I meet David Kitchen, who was coming down for an interview, on Thur. morning. Or could he come to Blood Brothers and talk after? Or both? Good. This may be the first time someone else has come on one of our dates, and I'm secure enough not to mind because I know I shall be able to see him for the rest of my life. And I must meet David K. anyway, who Neil worked with for eight months, and says is a complete wanker.

Apparently the second half the Holocaust arrives, somthing Earth's Gate. Hm.

Also tomorrow Particia has arranged for him to meet a jingles man, Nigel Oates, for some bread and butter work. N.O. said on 'phone, 'We'll meet at Kettner's. You don't know Kettner's? It's where the musical community go'. Hm again.

Wednesday April 13 1983

He rang about 12.30ish, I said 'Riverside 1208', he said 'Crouch End here.' He can throw warmth into his voice like almost nobody else I know. Not seeing Peter Hagan now. 'Oooh, I haven't told you. Bob and I are doing a musical with Gilmore. You had something to do with it, didn't you?' 'Well', I said, 'I didn't make him like the cassette (or the new songs which Bob played him) but I have sold you to him in a big way, over the last year.’

Told him about Bob Stephens being interviewed on TV-AM, and was not asked about, nor did he mention, Studio, tho' it's only at ep. 3. I also told him that the time has been put back again, to 11.30. There was a very long pause. 'That means my big number will go out at ten past twelve. I see.' Poor little boy.

He doesn't want to give me the cassette, he wants to re-mix, as the voices are too lost. Good, I was able at last to leap in and say how important it was not to lose the voice so much. But he's bringing it.

I said David K's seat was in the upper circle, was that all right, because I didn't suppose he had any money. 'Yes, that's all right', he said, 'I thought if you did the seats, I'd do the meal, as he's my guest.' (He said, 'as he's my guest!.)' Well, that was good because he found he'd been at college (and in bed) with the percussionist, and he asked her, too, a sweet plump red-cheeked intelligent girl.

I met him in front of the Lyric - in his trilby - with David Kitchen (two unrelated to each other or Michael Kitchen) and we went to a pub in Old Compton St (I found out after he'd rather not have gone there, as he'd gone there with Linn, who he doesn't seem to want to meet, and it's a bit Granada for now). David K. is tall, rather upper-class twit looking but isn't, with a round fresh- complexioned wary face. At first sight shy, defensive, defective sense of humour. K's description of his mimicry and funny voices made me suspicious and I fear I may be right. I can't say I take to him because he is so tight. - the worst thing for an actor. But the script is not without possibilities, and I shall certainly not squash it as yet. They're coming round tomorrow morning, they said.

'Blood Brothers' was a great disappointment, music v. poor and monotonous, a pity as the sound was excellent, (K said the best he's heard yet in the West End) and the how ill-constructed. Sad because the story was potentially touching. I give it six weeks, or 3 months if the management has any money. But the three things I shall carry away from tonight, are first, his real violent outrage at hearing (in the corridor on the way to the bar, the electrician complimented me on it) I'd been on 'Tears Before Bedtime' on TV and hadn't told him. It was such a small part and such a rotten series, and I was afraid he'd just see me as a small-part actor. But he was right to tell me off really sharply 'What would you say if it was the other way round?' True, very true. I was wrong and apologised. And underneath I was thrilled that he was so angry. Second, when I asked about the numbers in ep.4, and he said the last one was the jam session with Zoot Money that was such a mess. I said oh yes, that was the time when, as we walked away, you snarled at me so violently when I tried to comfort you.' He looked stricken and took my hand under the table and held it and squeezed it for a bit, and said sorry again. I said well I like it really because I knew you only did it because you knew I'd love you the same whatever you did. Yes, he said. Thirdly, and overwhelmingly the best, the united front we presented to David K. and Liz Kitchen, both of whom he knows well, but I have solid ground under my feet with him, even with two people he's seen a lot of. I cannot repeat too often the peace of feeling secure with him at last, after all the pain, little of it his fault, poor boy.

Thursday April 14 1983

K. arrived about 3.15 with David Kitchen, who seemed a bit better. Perhaps I did, too! K. went off at once to make some tea - how I love it that it's ordinary to him now to do that. Indeed, I love it so much it's quite difficult for me to allow it to be ordinary. We had a fairly good talk about Heaven and Hell, which would have been better without David K., who talks in the air too much, and tried to act the play out in a style too graphic for a drawing-room. There is something phoney about him. Oh Ho, he doesn't like me. Of course, K. knows little of actors or acting, tho' his critical senses are of the finest, like all his senses.

I am still very chary of 'H & H' Imagine arch angels and Satan and assorted types arriving at the Pearly Gates, or turning to the Judgment Seat, all ending up with the atom bomb. Oh dear. What would a manager say? I am suspicious of D.K. I think he is battening, knowingly? on K.'s immense energy and generosity. (Oh dear, K. is so sweet - am I battening on him, too?) He showed little bits of bossiness as well today. Though he did relax a bit from time to time and say one or two good things, he is another third-rater in K.'s life, I still fear. But I will keep my mind open. I want to give every scope to K.'s creativity.

The interesting thing to me, of course, was the further revelation of K's views on the theatre. (Oh, yes, I forgot to say that the first hour or so was chat about music.) K. played the tape of the four songs he and Bob Mason recorded at Badminton, the one he's got to arrange and record for the jingles man next week, and the single the same man is issuing this week. His new numbers are a distinct advance in accessibility. The two commercial nos, not by him, are forgettable - I don't think the one will go, - at the moment, I should be surprised if R. hit the commercial jackpot. I don't want him to, of course, I want him in the theatre at least for a time. He also played a couple of tracks by Dollar, whose arranger he much admires, Trevor Fawn?, especially a passage on one track, after it would be faded out commercially, when the whole thing changes colour and rhythm and everything. Oh yes, he can do that. And I do hear that they were brilliant. He talked a lot, too, as he never has before, of the difficulties of electronic music. (After all, Liz K. was hurt that he was using a drum-machine.) And he said again, 'Some of my fellow students hate me for using drum machines'. He talked of the music we'd heard - his own, I mean - two of them are an attempt at really commercial songs. (And again, we must go into throat-mikes etc. - after all, you do want to speak voice to voice with yr. lover) After each song, of his own, I mean, he asked, 'Now the Ol Grey Whistle Test', that is, could we whistle them straight away, which would show they were commercial. Well, of course, neither David K, nor I, could. But I think I could without David K. there to constrict my throat from shyness. I must register again that he had mixed the voices down so that they sank into the accompaniment just like Wayne's Dad. I said it, and that was good.

His views on the theatre are of great interest, because he is of a fineness and yet pretty ignorant. He said of the first Act of H & H, 'We can have ten minutes' of wonderful noises, and the first arrival looking round at the set, and then the play begins. You've taken me to all these things and some of them I've enjoyed and some I haven't, but I don't understand why they go straight into the play. Well, most of them are like that, - I think the audience needs time to think.'

I said, 'Well, theatre isn't quite like that - you have to think with the author.'

He also said you must never be able to see the end of the play. I said that made revivals a bit difficult, Hamlet, for instance. I must talk to him sometime of it all again, because, into his voice came again, for the first time for some months, that note of defensive irritation, not at me as I now abundantly see, but at literature? drama? academicism? class? the intelligentsia? Or what? Perhaps it is that words disturb his dreams.

Later I said that I'd sat up in bed and laughed at beginning our Flanders-Swann prog. like this -

A' Not the first question you'll be asking yourselves is - What are these two doing sitting on the stage, with 34 years between them? Are they father and son? No we're not. K.M. Yes, we are. A. We're working on it, (aside) Actually Malpass is saving up for the operation in Switzerland.

K. explained about all that, while I was in the loo. Oh, dear, I don't think D.K. is keen to have me act in it really.

Friday April 15 1983

Went to see 'The Clinic' at ABC cinema, Fulham Rd. Both in the interval, when I scribbled on a bit of paper, and on coming out, I had an uprush of pure, settled happiness, such as I haven't held or felt for nearly a year. I think it must have reached my subconscious that I have made myself an unique place in his life.

I compared my sunny serene walk home, with the many fearful and despairing ones.

Sunday April 16 1983

Rang David Gilmore to ask about seats, and to say how good I thought his interview in the Times was, very good - really like him. So I've got the tickets, thank god. Just pray K isn't late, coming from M'chester (Must look and see last time K was late for anything.)

Ian Burns came to lunch, a friend of Roy Mitchell's, a tall thin long-chinned chap. He's in the chorus of 'Blood Brothers', was moving to London anyway, and now has the job to cover the move. I had a day with them both on Tuesday. Took them out to lunch and round London. He went off to rest, I took her to 'Children of a Lesser God', and drinks. She's a lively, mondaine Indonesian-Dutch girl, very London, with interesting views on Northern men, except that the only interesting view is when they are going to stop being Northern. Anyway, there he sweetly was, not Northern, Scots. Very much in love. I said she'd sent me a thank-you postcard. He asked to see it, and read and looked at it avidly. At the end of his visit, he gave me a choice of her photos, - he knows everyone must want her photo.

It was, oddly, a perfect summer's day. We sat out in the garden, first time, deck chairs, this year, and it was almost too hot. Modern manners. He said, 'Let's have some music, and went and fetched the cassette player! I'm used to it, but even ten years ago, I would have been offended and thought him very rude. Not now, because they don't mean it.

We played K's new songs and he was really impressed. I like the second - Factory Dance, and the lst. 'That's the Way The Story Goes', that's the best. Though all are good, and K's drumming alone, is brilliant.

Out in the evening with Philip Draycott. Dull slow film 'The Verdict'. Nice meal at Il Partico. He stayed the night, from lethargy.

Monday April 18 1983

Met K. at the Globe for first night of David Gilmore's production, 'Daisy Pulls It Off'. He was in his chamois leather top, a series of pieces of different-coloured leathers, apparently held together by faith. Very nice and modish. those trousers he wore at Dr Who. I still think he looks his dazzling best with a collar of some sort, and not just a T-shirt top at the bottom of his neck. We picked up the tickets, he laughing at me getting over-excited. Picking up my gloves, umbrella and book from the floor where I'd put them to write the cheque, he said, 'Now calm down, Angus. Left a bottle of champagne at the stage-door for David and to the pub across the road. Just ordering the drinks, when 'Hello' said David. He was calming his nerves with a Guinness. So the long-awaiting meeting took place. They got on very well, with good talk about music and the theatre generally. I said little, but stood between them and looked and thought. It will give me extreme pleasure to think of them working together, that I partly brought it about, and that I think I have helped and taught them both.

The play was a real success. A perfectly judged production, it treads that wonderfully fine line like 'The Boy Friend', between being funny and being real. The main girl, Alexandra Mathis, is a real find, she has great appeal, breadth - rare these days, unerring timing, and a good singing voice.

Helena Little, Bob Mason's girl-friend, was also excellent, Kate Buffery as the Head Girl beautiful, in fact I thought it a very strong company. K. was knocked out by it, 'I've never seen a production like this'.

We went backstage for a little drink. I re-met David's sister, Elaine, now an elegant fashion- buyer for Harvey Nichols, still with traces of the simple girl she was at sixteen. She seems to have forgiven me for making her cry! I took her address. K. said he could really go for her. She's 35 you see! I met Andrew Lloyd Webber - Fiona introduced me. A cold little fish, with fishy eyes. To see him walk past K. and K's face!

We parted at the stage-door. I forgot to say he'd rung in the early afternoon just back from Manchester, to say he wouldn't have supper because he’d got to arrange that single. 'I thought I could work on it in M'chester without a keyboard, but I couldn't. So there's four hours tonight or more, and tomorrow, to get my head together over it.' So I said goodnight, (and this shows me how much I have changed and surmounted) came home in perfect serenity to my solitary chop.

I should say the play is a hit, and will make David's name.

I forgot to say that AL-W insisted on writing a new school-song for London under the anagrammatic name of Beryl Waddle-Browne. 'Not as good as the £50 one we had before, but who am I?' murmured David.

Wednesday April 20 1983

Rang K. as he'd suggested but he wasn't in, as I rather imagined. From something Phil said, I wondered whether he hadn't quite told me the truth on Monday, since he didn't see Nigel O. on Tuesday. Ah well, silly boy if so. He could say 'I'm going to see Louise' - I'd mind a lie much more. But I trust him completely.

Thursday April 21 1983

Have just put the 'phone down from ringing K after watching ep. 5. None of his clever music is there, only a bar or two under the dialogue. It is insulting not to say stupid. The only first-rate thing about the series is relegated to the back of the soundtrack. I burn for the poor boy. Oh I weep for my species.

I had no idea that he was to be relegated to the background in this degrading way.

I will fight and fight for him.

But I won't need to. One day Studio will be remembered as the series that pushed Kevin Malpass into the background! And everyone will say Gracious.

Friday April 22 1983

More soberly, what on earth did they have a music budget of any sum let alone £70,000? The last two episodes didn't need any original music at all - they could just have paid whatever they paid for those bits of Elvis and Hoagy from the Wurlitzer last night. I must ask him whether apart form the signature tune, anyone complained about the quality of the music. Well, David Carson never wanted him, and certainly somebody's squeezed him out. To think that they would have had all those splendid numbers and cut a lot of that unspeakable unhearable dialogue. Finally, when you remember that the whole idea for the series was Kevin's.....

Saturday April 23 1983

Too late to write last night. K. arrived about 6.45, very held up in wet Friday night traffic. I shall be so relieved when he can use the car less - he finds it so irritating. He played me the single he's just arranged. It's really very good - he gets better every time. He told me he played it to Phil, who said first, 'It's a bloody awful tune.' He's so glad to be getting away from Phil whose tone of mind is stultifying. Nigel Oates who is still a complete wanker, has offered him a partnership! We talked it over. He said it might mean a lot of money - I said it mightn't mean any money, with the greatest ease. But mainly I said, very emphatically that K. of all people I've ever known, could least fruitfully work with someone he had no sympathy with. He just wanted his own feeling confirmed. I wonder what Patricia will think. It might be interesting to hear.

He has exchanged contracts for the flat, and can move in on Friday. 'So we'll go and look at carpets and gas cookers next week etc etc.' I said, 'How do you know whether I'll be free?' He said, 'Well, aren't you?' with that complete faith that always floors me. He mentioned the keys again, and ep. 6.

The Gilmores arrived about ten past eight. She looks pinched and much too thin. We had a successful evening. K. and David had good talk, and I hope will get on, though I could tell K. felt D's rough edges as I do. But I do hope K. can find fresh faith and hope in the theatre. Hot prawns with a little cream and breadcrumbs, steak cass, apple meringue. Neither K. nor D. had the apple meringue.

K. stayed for about an hour after the G's left. I read him one or two bits of my diary about Phil. And them together. He said, 'Yes, I do think I've changed.' We talked some more of the flat - I said, 'Let's arrange now', 'But that's two days ahead.' He never thinks I'm left with the empty days I've kept free - he's so grand.

But at the moment he can't help it, and I will not point it out - he must come to it himself. Just as I have tried, perhaps too hard, to insert realistic thoughts about Bob Mason. He said, 'Interesting what you said in your letter about David Kitchen'. In allusions and perceptions, K. is a great deal subtler than I had any idea at first.

When he had affectionately gone, the intensity of my concentration on him was lifted, and I just walked round crying uncontrollably as if I were in despair. But it was happiness. He is a rare person.

Sunday April 24 1983

I must arrange dates for Sat. and Sunday. I feel so often such aching loneliness.

Oh. He rang 10.15 p.m. Shall we meet at the flat at 11.00. Oh, I thought you were with Louise today. No, I've just had a lazy day.

11.0!

I've just got the giggles. He's never rung at such a time. And yet I must be there at eleven, peremptory is not the word. Oh God, the fun!

Monday April 25 1983

To his new flat at 11.0. A little woman with two children in a pram asked me how many bedrooms there were in the flats, and how much, and told me that the house was sold, unconverted, about 18 months ago, for £21,000!

He arrived about ten past eleven, as he swept past in the car, tooting his horn, she said, 'Oh, there's your son now', and I didn't correct her.

We first measured the rooms and the windows, for carpets and blinds. Then went off to buy eventually a gas-cooker, and a lot of slate-blue carpet and no fridge, because he thought his cocktail fridge at B'minton would do. we stopped off at his nearest pub for a drink (oh, forgot to say that of course he'd jumped out of bed and come out without any breakfast, so about 11.30 we went to the local caff for a cup of coffee/tea and he had two huge rashers and two eggs) and in my case, a couple of ham rolls. The pub was a real genuine untouched pub, full of Cockneys'. Quite interesting, but impossible. Next to us was a heavy-faced leaden blurred-looking woman, who told us she'd 'lost her best pal, her husband', 'God bless you, you're a gentelman', and other bromides. All acceptable at first blush, but alas two minutes later the record started up again, and you saw that her mind had more or less gone. So that when she repeated for the umpteenth interruption of our conversation, that when you were old, nobody bothered about you, well...

When we walked back to the new flat to be there for the carpet-fitter, that was an odd little moment - with the sense of it being the first of many times. When he'd gone, we went back to the Crouch End flat, and I learnt to my delight that Phil was away for a couple of weeks. K. wants me to go round there for ep. 6. Right, as he’s watched all the other eps. there.

He showed me his new synthesizer (£999) in detail, and a lot of what it can do. He says he's only at the edge of finding out how to make use of it. They are incredible, a really new thing like lasers. The leaflet lists about eighty different instruments and sounds it can imitate, apart from the sounds or programmes one can store in it invented by you. After a bit we rang the gas, electricity and dustmen, and went off to leave a note with the dustmen and sign a form for the electricity to be turned on. All is well arranged for Friday. He drove me hilariously all the wrong way round the one ways, and arrived at a tube station which he hadn't meant.

One moment. In the morning he wanted to check on the light fitment in the sitting-room. 'Give me a leg-up'. That didn't work. 'Get on my shoulders', I said. So he did. Now, of course, it was sensual to have his prick pressing into the back of my neck. But nothing is simple. I think a real father, for example would feel some sensuality some sort of sexual feeling. Conversely, I also felt something natural, and touching and ordinary about the feel of that slim lean thing winding its legs round my neck. And pathetic. I mean, the vulnerability and impermanence of the human body.

It was a part of the whole day. We were, we are, having some ordinary life together, and it is such 'foon', as he calls it. Two or three times, he drove off somewhere else, chirrupping with pleasure at it all.

Again, you see, it's a new stage, because again our togetherness was emphasised by the very different circumstances. Our intimacy was emphasised by everything else's strangeness.

Forgot to say that David G. rang up to say thank you, and apologise for being so loud and over- bearing - 'it was your gins'. I said I supposed Fiona had told him off. No, he said, she doesn't do that. Lindsey did, but she doesn't. He mentioned Lindsey! He also said yes, he was commissioning a musical from Bob and Kevin, and yes, there would be some money from the theatre, matched by a similar sum from the Arts Council. Good.

I wish I could catch, without sentimentality or sententiousness, the feeling I had today. There is an extraordinary feeling of intimacy in watching someone sign for the turning on of electricity and gas, and so on. I find it difficult to believe that I have found exactly the place in his life that I imagined, but thought was impossible.

Tuesday April 26 1983

During the driving about yesterday, we talked of Nigel and Phil. K. said he hadn't seen any signs of any artistic talent in N. but he wanted him to have the chance. 'Otherwise he'll stay up there and become a vegetable like Phil - awful thing to say but it's true.

I also told him about his mother saying he was always generous-spirited, especially over Nigel being spoiled as the little one, Phil being spoiled as the eldest. 'I didn't think I was' said K. when we were sitting on the floor of the bare sitting-room, waiting for the carpet-fitter, 'I thought I behaved very badly, as well as not knowing whether I was male or female. Anyway, I'm the first to get a flat', with that grin.

Finally caught him this afternoon, just back from first talk with David G. Fancy.

Yesterday he also said, 'I’ve got some news for you. Janet rang up.' 'Oh, you're getting back together?' 'Far from it. She rang to say she's going to Bangkok, possibly for good.'

!!

Meeting at the flat. 2.0.

Another omission. I was quite amazed that he'd made detailed plans of each room to scale, on music paper, and an equally detailed list of things to buy, incl. Tree £30. He agreed it should be big enough to stand under. He said more than once, 'I reckon I'll be left with more or less nothing when I've finished, and that'll be good.'

He's having a 6'x 4' glass in the bedroom, 'So that I can see myself really properly before I go out.'

Wednesday April 27 1983

Had to ring K. when I got back from shopping, as Mrs. E had left a note saying 'ring Ernest in Manchester casting.’ I dottily thought it was his father for a minute. Phil dead and Ernest in M'chester organising the funeral. (It turned out later that it was the singer of 'Romeo' who wants to put it out as a single. Greatish.)

Met him at the flat at 2.15, - I was a bit late because Neil rang up about his film job, for which he tests on Friday. I unloaded he kitchen things I'd brought, including a green lavatory brush from Harrods! and then we went off to buy the cork tiles, for the kitchen and music room Problems, they hadn't enough of the sort he wanted. However, he got enough to do the kitchen. He also propounded that I pay for everything as it's taking him forever to get his money out of the Halifax. Oh dear, if he only knew. How I long to pay for everything, without him paying back. But I shan't. While he started the tiles, I cleaned the flat, as far as I could without hot water. But all is reasonably clean. After I'd finished that, K. was still sticking the tiles and covering himself with glue. I volunteered to get some solvent. Walked out into Holloway - the heavens opened - got some nail varnish remover. When I got back, he was really worried. And later when I put my wet coat on, are you going to be all right. Amazing. Poor darling, he's so caring, by my age he'll have no time for himself at all. I think most people in his life have got him wrong so far. He is the dearest young man.

Saturday April 30 1983 9.0 a.m.

Thursday was a really lovely day. He picked me up here about 9.45, had a good breakfast - I was glad of that - and said nobody cooked fried eggs quite like me. Then we went to the Conran Shop, which used to be Habitat. He was very scornful of me thinking that's where Habitat was We did a round of the various young shops. He looked and looked and hovered and hovered. He is the funniest mixture of knowing exactly what he wants and not being able to decide. He thrills to things so vividly it makes it difficult. We lunched at a little pub behind the King's Road somewhere, not at all smart. At one point in the car, he asked me if I were bored. Bored! If only he knew how I live to be with him. I said he was one of the very few people I was never bored with. He said, 'Well, I'm never bored when I'm with you'. By the end of the day he'd bought a small very plain pale turquoise table, two metal armchairs with upholstery in pale turq. and primrose broad diagonal stripes, a 4' 6" mattress, a sharply angled lampshade in white finely perforated metal, like a coarse sieve, a clothes rack on wheels painted in pale magenta curled like a telephone lead plastic large-link chain in various primary colours, a waste-bin in magenta, a bright red sugar basin and milk just to go with his teapot, and an electric-kettle in a pale blue and white, to which he's attached a bright yellow lead with a red plug. I'd bought everything as he hadn't been able to get his money from the Halifax in time. He said to Bob M. about the flat 'I'd never have done it if it hadn't been for Angus'.

We'd also bought some cork tiles which he started to lay in the kitchen part of the main room. I swept the flat out - rather difficult as it's covered in hardboard.

We went back to the Crouch End flat to do some 'phoning. Than a change of plan - we went to Louise's for dinner. She's well not exactly the girl-friend of the moment, but she's the only one he's sleeping with. She's, among other things, a puppeteer and worked with the Muppets. She is tall, big all over, buxom, indeterminate colouring, but a rather beautiful broad generous-lipped face. Her personality is much the same, but there is a certain frantic bit of her that I didn't take to, insecurity about being attractive, I think. Her flatmate, Peter Hutchinson, an actor I met before here with K., was a bit high on something, and later on got giggly and silly. Two other guests, girls, were really off. Another couple arrived, later on, she very very dim, an actress, he, a writer, and probably no good either. The kitchen where we ate, was very grubby - I took one look at the cooker and 'fridge, and wished I hadn't. I liked Louise and Peter, but never want to see any of the others again. I hope K. won't make a practice of cultivating fifth-rate people! I shouldn't have had to be talking to them. Not that he wasn't sweet. I said I hoped I'd behaved all right, as the manners are so different. He said, 'Well, it'll always be like that with my friends, they'll be embarrassed at first', and I said 'And then they find I say fuck, too'. 'Exactly', he said. A sad situation. I don't know what the rest of them thought when we left at 10.0 to watch ep. 6. at his flat. But we couldn't have watched it with that motley crew.

So we watched it and it was as terrible as all the others. He tried to argue for it a bit during it, saying, 'That's exactly what it's like' as if imitating the surface was what counted. The thing is dead, and mostly badly acted and abominably written. I snapped at him, and he said 'Not another word'.

I felt - and feel - badly, but he knows inside that I only snapped because I mind about him so much. His big number was excellent, except for Michael Feast, and a big exception - that it had no show behind and no pressure or frame. So on the average viewer if any, it had no impact much at all, I'd say. If they'd done all his music at full length, who knows? Cut the worst of the dial. and it might have caught on on the grounds of what style will he catch next?

I slept in his bed, and couldn't write that night. His first words the next morning were, 'Did you sleep well?' Not that he got up to give me my tea or anything! That would be too much of a shock.

Yesterday was a v. dreary frustrating day for him - and for me. We stood in the empty flat most of the day, taking turns to wait in for the electricity and gas to be turned on. The gas-man never came. The electrician came but said he couldn't connect the meter because the test certificate hadn't been completed. The man with the cooker never came. The one bright spot was that the carpet man came and was very nice and expert. The carpet is all the same, a good smokey blue, very much the colour of K's eyes, actually. When he was sitting on it in the bedroom, I said so, and that people would think he'd done it on purpose as an ego-trip. Poor K. was backwards and forwards in the car on various fruitless phoning and journeys. For all any of them know, he's in that flat with no heat or light. And it's a Bank Holiday weekend. When we finally left, (he went off for a talk with Bob about the S'hampton musical) he realised he ought to lock up the flat-door for the first time, not just the street-door. At the car, I noticed him detaching one of the flat door keys from the little ring, to put on his own. He gave it to me.

Today was better, apart from one argument. I went out shopping early, but he'd got here with the van by the time I got back, let himself in and started to cook himself some bacon. Oh how that moved me - at last it's really happening. We loaded the van with all the things that've been here since he left, and I didn't feel a pang. Of course, it's true I was driving off with him, this time. But really, it was because I know and feel that he's there, part of my life. Off we drove to the famous recording-studio at Actor turville near Badminton. Exquisite country, village perfection of Cotswold stone, not a jarring note. We turned into a yard with on one side a lot of outbuildings, barn stables and so on, part of which is Ian Heseltine's carpenter's shop, part will be the rec. studio. The first person we met was Diana, Keith Foster's wife. K. introduced me. She was polite but cool. Ian H. greeted me warmly. I was taken into the shop; after a bit of a chat, I realised K. had vanished, and Diana took me through the house, a big beautiful farm-house, decorated in patchily insecure taste - no family things obviously - to a small spare room, packed with the loves of K's life, the 8-track, the amplifiers, the etc etc. He was sitting listening to a song Keith Foster had written head-phones on, his whole body going with it. I hoped it was a short song, and not one of the long series, as we had no time to spare at all. We had to call at Habitat on the way back for the rest of the new stuff. The song finished - apparently Keith F. who is a high-powered consultant of some kind is talented musically, it's his hobby - and I was introduced. Small, narrow-faced, in a jazzy sweater, he's amiable enough. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he were a twister. I heard him say to K. that they've deferred any income-tax for K. till 1987! Even if they bring such a scheme off, it will alert and irritate the Revenue far too early in K's life. It is also utterly irresponsible to tell K. who will now feel he needn't put anything by for tax at all.

Of course I was jealous as well. On all counts. God, how I have to fight not to be jealous of anyone who takes an interest in him. We left, having been there from 12.40 till about 1.20, - no one offered us a drink, let alone lunch. There's something wrong between the Fosters. K. says he's away such a lot, and then when he is there, he's always in the studio. So D. doesn't like K. for encouraging him. On the way back, K. was saying how all the people 'down there' didn't pay tax. They'd sussed it out, etc. etc. Of course he could tell I hated such talk. He said defiantly he agreed with them, because he didn't want his tax used as the Gov. would use it, especially for nuclear defence. We nearly had a bad argument. I felt sick.

I thought it was over, and I see he must live in the world as it is. It's only the modern form of us starting the Co. And how I hated that and look what it led to. He hasn't lowered his principles, he's sticking to them. It's just that I hate him living in a society that's falling apart - he is so fine and good.

We got back into the traffic-jams. Oh we stopped for petrol, and he sent me across a huge tarmacked space to an odd complex of shops and restaurants, such as occurs every now and then on motorways. They're called, I think, service areas. Very nasty. I got some sausage rolls and two tins of an orange drink called Tango. Another first for me, as I have never before had a drink straight out of the tin. It's all part of my determination not to resist, stupidly, the squalor of modern life, and to join K. in his life, not alienate him by criticising what he cannot avoid. We picked up the things at Habitat - all packed flat in boxes, ah me! And went to the new flat to put them together. With some struggle and wild cries from K. (I forgot to record that, at the end of yesterday, he kicked that new transparent cushion I gave him, across the room, where it burst with a bang. He sank to the floor, and banged his forehead on it and nearly wept.) We got them all up, - he'd bought, while we were there this time, a bright red set of shelves and a trolley, - thick tubular uprights, and perforated wire shelves. (I created a crisis by dropping a what? inside one of the uprights. He had to retrieve it my taking off the castor, but he forgave me.)

I've left till last our talk on the way out, when he outlined the plot of the musical he and Bob Mason may write for Southampton. The bare idea had come to him the afternoon before, while we were doing the 'phoning, and he'd scribbled down a few ideas. Some young people in a squat, all different, all weird. Tick and tock the robot couple, a girl-boy and a boy-girl, a gay and so on. I said that could be promising, but there must be a situation. Well, now there is. Bob expanded it into, as it might be, Sid Vicious's house, lent to these people by Sid. They get an invitation to stay, don't believe it but break in anyway. Sid never appears, is only head on an answering machine ringing from New York. Climax is S.V. committing suicide on the answer- phone. The young, K feels, have a very bad deal. He's right. (As we drove along the King's Road. all the odd hairstyles on parade excited him, 'They're a statement' - they are, but I doubt if more than 5 per-cent adopt them for any other reason than inadequacy. He said he must join in. I know what he feels, but I should so hate it because the styles are so ugly and he is so beautiful.)

I am very tired, my legs are aching, I've wrenched my arm. But none of that matters. Kneeling with him, holding one of the new chairs for him to screw it together, I looked at that dear head, the thick brown hair falling over his face, the defenceless back of the neck, the thin waist, long legs, big feet, of this boy I've grown to love so much. I thought I don't care what happens or what I do, as long as I can go on loving him, and knowing that he cares for me. These last few days, arguments and all, have been among the very best of my life.

Sunday May 1 1983

Told K. on the way back to the flat last night that Louise was falling for him. Yes he had sort of thought, thanks for the warning. He is so naturally responsive, that, without insincerity, he misleads people. I mean, taking her to see the new flat ... Poor girl. Perhaps.

The musical, he also said, nearly ended up a Studio again. As the house if full of recording gear and instruments, they suddenly realised... What it's also about, underneath ,is K. and Bob 'being fucked about by producers.'

11.45 p.m.

I'd asked him to come and have the shoulder of lamb and GRAVY, mainly because he needs the distraction, the sight of a settled home, and the food. I don't suppose he's had anything more than he had with me the last two days, for weeks. He arrived late, about twenty to nine - I'd begun - and left early, about 10.15. And that was good.

I said did he get in touch with Louise. And he said yes, she came to the flat, meaning Crouch End, and seduced him on the sofa. And, he said, we had very good sex. As if that was in some way an answer to me saying she was falling for him. He also told her the plot of the new show. Well, that's all right, she is a pro. And he tries things out on everyone, but still.... However, I'm glad (and envious!) of the good sex.

Over dinner I read him the Lorenzo Jessica music passage. He's never heard of it. I was talking of Gielgud and Olivier. He said he'd always hated anything he'd seen Olivier do. Of course he would. I said Gielgud's recording. 'No, he said, you play it to me. Meaning read it. So I did. And again he melted. Imagine a musician who has never heard that passage.

As I had dashed about serving, and he was saying how delicious it was, he asked if it was shoulder of lamb, yes, I said, cook for 2 hours, basting frequently. 'What does baste mean?' 'Pouring the fat over the joint with a spoon'. 'Ah', he said, 'well, why not say that?'

'Because', I said, going to the loo the while, ' "baste" is one word instead of nine'.

Do you know, that made an effect. When I got back, he said, 'It must be wonderful for you to talk to someone with the same command of language as yourself'. 'Yes', I said, 'it is'.

Oh, the dear little creature. One of the most amazing elements of our relationship, is that it flourishes, despite the almost complete disablement of my main talent. I have made my way with him deprived of my main asset, the brilliance of my conversation. With him, I am always inhibited, always watching, that I don't use a word, or make an allusion that will shut him out.

Over the coffee he said he'd got a new ambition, he wanted to be representative of his generation. Far from laughing, it's my dream. And anyway it's a bit on the way there already. I'll see to it. How sweet that he can't see he already is.

He talked of his house-warming party. Should it all be one party? His heavily druggy friends, would they mix with Patricia etc and Neil and Lynda and his present landlord and wife. I must go into how heavily druggy his h.d. friends are. Who are they? Certainly his parents mustn't come to either party, if he has two separate ones.

We discussed his cannabis plants. I'll grow one, I said, no one will suspect me.

Also sheets. The big old sheets from our big bed for his big bed. Our life together gets humdrum. Good.

Monday May 2 1983 Bank Holiday.

Curious Sunday-type day. Rang K. about 6.0. Yes, the piano-people came. (Oh, I rang him first at quarter to ten to say that they were coming at 3.0, despite the holiday.) He was still n.c.m. - but I had to get him before he went out - when? They had to take the piano to pieces to get it round the corner of the staircase at Bryantwood Rd. but he's played it! and met the next door neighbour, who turns out to be an Eskimo of 90. ! He chattered to me at once. He's having a proper meal tonight, he said.

Crispin Redman came to dinner. He has kept saying I mustn't make any special effort. So tonight I didn't. And he was on the doorstep with his girlfriend, Sarah! Uninvited. And all I had was the end of the joint that K. had left. However, I opened a tin of onion soup, and on we went.

Sarah is a good girl. I struck up an alliance with her at once, as it were against him. She is waiting for him to grow up, as I am. Two sentences. 'You see why he's so good for me'. 'You see, we can say things to each other we haven't said, sort of through you'.

I can't decide whether I'm shocked or pleased by that admission, but it was a v. successful evening. I love Sarah. She is mild and real and strong and there. And, poor darling, resigned because she has to be.

How easy it would be if K. were Crispin. He just talked tonight, as D. sometimes did, straight- away, like me. We meet at 12.0, at the flat. Crispin was quite different with S. there, thank god. Oh, little Kevin, you'll be all right.

And yet, if he were Crispin, I wouldn't love him.

He said yesterday, or did I dream it.

Imagine if we'd met when I was 21 and you were 21.

Tuesday May 3 1983

To K's flat at 12.0. Stopped on way at Sainsbury's and bought a lot of groceries, to stock him up with essential basics.

We sat about a bit, went to the pub for something to eat. About 2.30 Nigel Oates, possible record-producer, arrived. After half an hour's chat, K. emerged to say he was still 'a complete wanker', but he had nothing to lose, as he got a 50% share of the songs they put out for just his work. No question of an investment. Better get a nice tight agreement. I wouldn't trust N.O. further than I could throw him with my bad arm.

Man came with cooker. Helped K. put up his corner yellow plastic and red-wire-hung lamp. To the ironm. for some screws and back. K to buy 'fridge. Left at 4 and is still not back at 5.45.

Getting on well with 'Love's Shadow'. I was a fool not to bring it the other day.

Heavenly day so far, I wish K. moved all the time.

He eventually came back at 6.35, just as I was beginning to get really worried. But he made a row with the builder, who hadn't come, and going back to Crouch end to ring his solicitor etc. etc. then he sat down to think! Then we came back here, and he's sleeping here. Lovely.

But - another stage in friendship. We had a gin and tonic, he rolled a joint, and wanted to watch 'Flame Trees of Thika' - god save the mark - by 8.30, I'd had 3 gin and t and wanted my dinner more than somewhat. So I had it. He watched his lovely middle brow prog. I came up with my coffee after it was safely over. Then cooked him his. Read him bits of my diaries from long past, which I've never done to anyone.

He prepared his lists for tomorrow. Oh how I love that boy.

Wednesday May 4 1983

Called him at 8.30, as he asked. Eventually he got up at ten past nine - not bad. Got into the car, - it wouldn't start - he'd left the lights on and the battery was dead. Oh he was cross. Snapped my head off 'no, don't plug it in yet' etc. 'I'm going to fist someone today', 'I knew it was a disaster coming here in the first place', this standing in his room! Six months ago I would have been very hurt by that. Now I know him so much better that I am flattered rather than not that he expresses his rage, because he knows I shall be just the same whatever he does.

I got £1101 back from the Tax man!

We went off by taxi to Habitat. He ordered a mass of smallish things, and finally spent £200 I left him at 11.- to get to the new flat for the gas-man. K. got home about 1, still no gas-man. I went to the pub to get us a snack, and of course he arrived. Turned the gas on - a leak. Sending the leak man round, the floor-boards might have to come up. Horror. Never mind the carpets, there would be such a clearance of things to be done - and K's cork tiles. Leak man arrived - K. left to do more errands - I had some minutes of suspense but all is well. With the gas on, I could boil some water and get on with some serious washing-up. Got through all the old and new stuff by the time he got back about four. Then we did various jobs. I held the front door while he planed a bit off the bottom - for the carpet. He said, 'Sorry I was so cross this morning'. Now he wouldn't have said that six months ago. We moved the piano, he played a bit of manuscript he found in a drawer. It was a phrase he'd thought of three or four years ago, and had included in 'Studio' without realising. He played the opening bars of a classical Piano Concerto he's started! For Sue. Partly, I think to show her he can! And as an expression of friendship. Good. I think music will pour out now he's own master. When he says 'Oh, I can't do that because of Phil' the opposite is even truer. Who knows what you can do, till you can do it?

About six, I cooked him some bacon and egg - his first meal in the flat, washed up - and went home. I left him before I need have. That shows how much progress I and WE - have made.

He said he'd seen just the dining-table, but it was too expensive, £135. I said I'd give it him. He said, 'I can't take any more presents'. 'Yes you can'. 'Well, only if you don't pay for the piano- moving'. 'All right'. I said later, 'This is a secret between us - because I don't give anyone else presents like that'.

It gave me a thrill in my stomach to say this to him.

He talked quite a lot about music to me today.

I think he'll sleep at the flat tomorrow night.

Thursday May 5 1983

No, he won't. The electrician arrived, and wouldn't connect the supply until four deficiencies had been corrected. So he had to get in touch with the builders.

It was a black day. He was in one of his black tempers. I was tired. I won't now have the first meal with him on his first night, because it'll be Saturday and he's asked Bob Mason round. And sally, dirty Sally, on Sunday.

Ah well, I've always known I get the bad temper and the dirty clothes and the debts, and other get... well, the opposite. That's what fathers get.

We met at the shop near Centrepoint. He showed me the table which he'd already bought, which I'm buying him. Black metal square frame legs at each corner, filled by piece of glass with graph pattern. Black metal arm-chairs. Lots more stuff, including blinds from John Lewis, bright clear yellow and thank god he has perfect taste and never chooses a bad design. Already the flat has a strong overall look. In the later afternoon, to Tott. Court Rd. He rang electricians, who won't come till Sat. morning, despite him telling them a lot of lies. Oh dear. We went into every Hifi shop in the T C Rd., so that he could find a new set of speakers and amplifiers. Very impressive it was watching the care and time and knowledge he spent over them. Eventually chose a set costing £600. Don't know whether he can afford that. We'll see. The quest improved his temper a bit, but much worse was to come. When we got back to the new flat, the builders had gone, and taken the keys with them. He drove, with a loaded car with a roll of vinyl held by me in the window to a house somewhere else in North London where the builder was working. He'd gone. He sat pale with anger for some minutes, then drove like the wind to the Crouch End flat, tried to telephone I don't know who, got no satisfaction, swore very violently, kicked the telephone hard across the room, and went out, slamming the door so that the room shook. It was now about ten to six. He rang the estate agents, and thank god someone was still there. We went and got the keys. Back at the new flat, he then lost his temper with me, quite unfairly but very naturally. I didn't care. We set up the new furniture - it all looks splendid.

He told me, at one point, in the car - we didn't talk much, - about ep. 1. That's when he said he wouldn't do the second series, when A. Mingh. produced two songs for ep. 7, which he didn't want K. to touch and that was to be the only music in the ep. 'Heartbeat Special' had been such a success that he thinks this was AM, June and David C. trying to get back at him. Can people be so petty? Yes. All the same, he still has to learn to be simpler.

At one or two points today, I thought I was a bit depressed by him. Then, when I said, 'Oh stay a bit, and have a chat'. And I realized I wasn't - we weren't divided, my depression was because he was so wretched. SIMON'S BACK.

Friday May 6 1983

Went and got Aziz's £1000 from his bank in the Fulham Rd., and cash from my bank. Bought the new Iris Murdoch at Hatchard's. Very warm sunny day. Then to meet K. at Hi-fi shop. He'd already been to Halifax and John Lewis. I gave him £500 as a loan, as well as paying for the table. We bought a whole hi-fi system, a cassette player, an amplifier, two splendid, apparently speakers, Wharfdale, the best. And a portable colour TV. When all that was in the car, we couldn't see out of the back window. Back at the flat, he went on sticking the thick dark cork tiles on the music-room floor. I washed he kitchen floor and cooked bacon egg and sausage for lunch, then went out to get keys cut, and various screws and other things he wanted. Later helped him measure and cut out vinyl for the bathroom. I wasn't really much practical help, as I'm no good at being a handyman. But I don't know that I'd have done much if I were. It's good for him to feel that he's done it all himself. He'll get pleasure out of looking at that bathroom floor every day. If it's gone right! - I left him trying to fit it round the loo and basin. With my keys. I can't quite believe it. The electricity is meant to be switched on tomorrow at 8.30. a.m. So I'm to ring him at 7.30. Poor love, he finds it so difficult to wake up in the morning.

Saturday May 7 1983

Another black day. I rang at 7.30 a.m. to get him up, and again at 7.45 to see whether he was up. Off he went to be there for the electrician. I did my weekend shopping, and a lot for him, incl. some real escalopes and cream, in case he consented to a bit of a celebration.

Alas, alas, there he was sitting on the floor, wiring up the hi-fi system. In the depths. The electrician hadn't come. There was nothing to say. He'd brought everything incl. his toothbrush. So many of the jobs left need electricity, for the drill and so on.

He couldn't face going out, so we had boiled eggs and bread and cheese. He brightened up enough later on to play (on his guitar) and sing a song he and his brother Phil wrote when he was 12. A love song! And another Phil wrote, quite a good idea, people at pop concerts are looking in the audience for someone and not really listening to the music. He went through one or two bits of the Naive Duos and the Layton Bros. repertoire with hilarious results. That was one of the few laughs in the day. He was fairly snappy most of the time. I didn't mind at all, except for a moment at the end, when I said I was going, 'Shall I go then?' I said, meaning did he want company or not. 'If you like', he said, with such cold indifference to whether I lived or died, what I did feel, no, not hurt, peeved. But he'd heard it, too, and got up and came onto the landing and said, 'Thanks for coming. I'll ring you tomorrow about Monday'.

(I've just wondered whether that snappiness, apart from his depression, is the way his father behaves to him - a bit of a put-down.

Interesting if he's playing it out with me, because I can take it.

When I rang Edna as usual this morning, she said, as well as her bad back, she'd been feeling wretched for ten days 'so tired I just have to go to bed at 7, and I told the doctor I'm losing weight rapidly'. Oh, no, I thought, she was just a stick before. She's having an overall examination Tuesday. 10.30.

To go back - of course! - to K. I must remind myself often how curious and wonderful it is that K. has gone through this whole flat business with me alone. I must consciously remember what a terrific compliment he has paid me, in sharing this big experience with me, and only with me. Here I am with my keys, I know where everything in the flat is. Almost as if he knew I needed that.

Sunday May 8 1983

Now lived here two years. Simon rang, and came round to tea with Barry, his new American friend. Quiet, withdrawn but watching and intelligent. Didn't say much, didn't get a chance! He was I think, observing. I cannot report S's and my talk, too much of it is too quick.

And anyway it's ours and that's the end of it. I wish he'd get stuck in about the Nicolson. K. didn't ring, so I did, at 11.0. Got Phil L. just back from Ireland, 17 concerts in 4 days! Can he have said that? Left message to remind K. window-locks in mornings. Shall go myself in case electrician comes, and in case K. forgets w-locksmith coming. Judging from past experience, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if K. hadn't zoomed off on a bender of some sort, if it's only joints and cards all night.

And I wouldn't blame him a jot.

But he'd be awfully cross if he missed either. Or possibly he's sleeping at the new flat either with candles or Louise! or having connected up the meter illegally.

Have read about 300 pages of the new Iris M. The Philosopher's Pupil. superb.

Monday May 9 1983

Rather drunk, but deeply happy. Decided to go to flat very early, as I had a sneaking feeling the electric man might come at 8.30 this morning. Sure enough there was a note already there from the builder saying the power would be switched on between 9 and 11. I let myself in, and there he was, in bed. He'd spent his first night there! He opened one surprised eye, and I went to make some tea and coffee. He got up almost at once! and came in wearing his night wear, a blue cellular vest and an old yellow t-shirt, so much stretched that it comes down to the middle of his thighs and looks like a mini-dress. He was full of what he'd done the day before - he'd put up the brackets for the speakers, borrowing an electric drill from the man next door, who, typically of K's luck, is a BBC carpenter, very useful. They gave him Sunday lunch, chicken, and I expect K. sparkled away! I didn't say anything, but they could be a great bore, good neighbours tho' they are. His best news was that he'd been able to do a lot more, because he ran a lead through from next door. He told me how he'd started on the holes for the very solid 12 stone-load- bearing loudspeaker brackets, and the hole kept getting bigger but not deeper. The neighbour was consulted - he'd got the drill in reverse! They look fine. He's also put up the shelves, or some of them, in the music-room. Very purging to see all that MS music and tapes and so on, that were in old fruit-boxes, properly stacked, though not yet sorted and played through. The electricity-inspector, a real jobsworth, came and found another fault! I couldn't believe it, and K. was of course beside himself. We had to drive, after I'd had a thoroughly unpleasant talk with a harpy at LEB, a talk which ended with me saying 'What a good advertisement you are for private enterprise', also threatened her with questions in the Commons! We drove, I say, to the house somewhere else in N. London, where the electrician is working. He came with us to the showroom, (though he'd called at the house once already) made out another Test cert. and paid the £7 this time. An insipid fair girl was on the 'phone not getting answer for ages, before saying they'd come and switch on tomorrow! Back at the flat, K. got on with the bath-room airing- cupboard shelves. He did it very well - it looks really professional - he kept calling me to come and look. Suddenly in the early afternoon there was the LEB electician. And he'd gone; and the light was on. (Even he made a slight effort to say 'shouldn't there... but we squashed it.) At first the central heating wouldn't work, and K. had to fetch that wretched electrician again. But by the time I came back from doing the shopping for dinner, it was on and the water hot. We plugged in the new 'fridge and it didn't work, but after that, all was happiness. I think today was the first fully completely happy day I've had since D. died. I was getting the dinner, he was finishing his work. I had a bath while he took the leads back next door. We had dinner. He said he was rather off Bob Mason, because Bob hadn't let him know about David G. and the synopsis. I daresay Davd G. hasn't read it yet, he's got a lot to do. But it is certainly a failure on Bob's part not to have rung at all, even to say there's no news. K is on tenter-hooks, so much so that he was guilty of a very uncharacteristic bit of vulgarity, when he said 'You don't know anything about it, do you?' as if I wouldn't have told him if I had.

After dinner - he'd turned the TV off before - he talked about his parents a lot. Did I realise that he got on much better with his father than his mother? That for some time he really hated his mother? That I know infinitely more about him than his parents do? 'Yes' I said, 'I think I can do it right'. He said, 'My relationship with my parents depends on you'. I said, 'If you love someone as I love you, it seems to give you the wisdom to do the best for them'. He read me bits from his diaries. Just short entries, but riveting to me, of course. Suddenly, we were on to D's death, and suddenly I wanted to describe it in detail, and suddenly he wanted to hear it. 'Did you look at her tits', he said, - he meant after she was dead. (That sounds coarse of him, it wasn't, just the reverse.) We talked of Edna's illness and possible death. He said more than once, 'I must meet her' and I must meet Lalla'. Yes, he must. I revealed a bit more what I thought of David Kitchen - he revealed a few doubts. He said 'You are a very powerful personality. You know, those time I went round to Neil's to smoke pot, it wasn't just that, it was to talk about you. We talked about nothing but you whenever I was there'.

Above or beneath all this, the day did hold a lot of ordinary life. Of 'Where's that hammer?' and 'Do you want roast potatoes?' In fact, I don't think I shall describe or need to describe, our friendship again. It's just there, as part of the bedrock of our lives.

I left at about 11.0, as Louise was coming, and I didn't want to go the moment she arrived, which looks so rude. He waved from the corner of the stairs, and went back to his beautiful clear bright flat, the home of a beautiful clear bright young man expressing his dreams and hopes and his joy in life.

And the music he played me today - all the time he was saying, 'Oh this bit' and turning it back and making me see, or rather hear. (Dollar and Keith Jarrett especially.)

Tuesday May 10 1983

Rather hungover. But also found out I was very tired after all that emotion and rushing about.

Had to go to bed at 9.0.

Edna's all right, I think.

Wednesday May 11 1983

In the evening to Lyric, Ham. Ghastly misbegotten play 'Cherry Orchard' being investigated at by Sherlock Holmes. Left at interval. Simon, and little Barry and Gillian Barge to dinner. Tiresome talk about tween wars theatre, otherwise a success. I must get S. right about that one day. What would I do without him? It was a good dinner. Gillian B. is a bit sad.

Thursday May 12 1983

Met David Gilmore at Magno's for lunch. He had oysters - I had eeilles - like sprats - we both had venison. He ordered a half-bot of Gerney-Chamb. with the cheese, and offered to pay for it. It was an interesting lunch. In his funny inhibited way, I can tell he's fond of me. He kissed the top of my head when he left.

The talk was mostly of his season and his work. What have I to say about mine? He is very able and energetic and obviously a splendid organizer. No wonder tho' he caused me such pain, tho, for he is still very self-absorbed, tho now he consciously tries not to be. He is certainly a 'good thing' in the theatre. He outlined his next season, or the last fifteen or so from which the seven? eight? must come. Sounds good. But dear K's show is not among them - he's turned it down. He said it was fantasy and he wanted reality. Well, the fantasy was Bob's contribution. Wish K. didn't get carried away by people too easily. D.G. also said that he'd accepted Bob M's thing about the Faulklands! He further said, apropos Studio, that Working Class Hero was much nearer Bob's heart than ever 'Studio' had been!

In the afternoon went to see Felix de Wolfe about him taking me on. Met a woman who'll deal with me as well, Bruna Vanelli. Not sure about her, but I must do something.

Had written to K. after Monday, and said in p.s. Tootsie on Thur. which he'd suggested. I put question marks because of him never wanting to decide till the last min. Of course he didn't ring before I went out. Then rang at seven saying 'Where were you?' Imagine how suicidal I'd have been one way and another, a few months ago! He was much depressed by the rejection of course, but seemed to think it was going ahead, with re-writing. That's not the impression I got from D.G. I certainly am sure that D. doesn't mean to include it in next season.

Friday May 13 1983

Simon round at 10.30 to discuss Nicolson. It's difficult, as so much of it is reflection. But he said one good thing for the shape, Dance of the Seven Veils. Start as the raconteur with an apparently seamless garment of charm and sophistication and intelligence and gradually reveal, no, not rottenness or anything clichéd but the perhaps surprising further dimensions of the man.

Rather as I have done in our friendship over the last four years! It gives me the shape, I think.

Because many of his views will come as a surprise after that beginning, as they did to his contemporaries. Out to photocopy in the E.C. Red tea (of course) in an Arab rest. Back home for a quiet evening and think.

Saturday May 14 1983

Prim and K. to lunch for Prim to sew his blinds on the old sewing-machine if she could get it going. If not, by hand. He arrived first, looking marvellous in white, a shirt with a narrow stand- up band, and his narrow white leather tie like a piano key-board tied inside the collar, which was open. White trousers tucked into black suede boots with wrap-over flaps held in with straps and buckles. A belt black with silver studs, like a knuckle-duster. He'd shaved, and looked so much less tired, and it makes me impatient that he is not famous now while his looks are so striking.

Prim was about half-an-hour late, and I was glad. He was v. down for a bit about the David G. musical. I tried to straighten out exactly what was happening, without making David look two- faced. I think the truth probably lies between Bob wanting to push the Falklands thing more than the musical, and D. not wanting to say simply the musical is completely off, at the first meeting. All I can record is that D.G. gave me no inkling that he intended to go on with the musical, (that he may simply not have got round to saying) but also he talked so much of the new season without ever mentioning the musical, tho' he did mention each possibility, including another musical. K. was in his 'I'm going to give it up if I find he's been two-faced, no, I won't have a drink etc.' with a closed little face. His mortgage has come in, and of course he is down. I did my best, he eventually had a martini and Prim's arrival made him make himself sparkle, and she was in such good form that he was soon really cheerful and laughing. Another stage - now that we are so close, it was good to be with him and Prim getting on so well, putting him really into the succession of my friends and passing on the ribbon of friendship as we feel it, to a new generation. He was most graceful with Prim.

He looked at the Making Music book and read bits out form Chick Coren's advice. What moved me was that he read it so well, putting into practice in words the advice meant for music.

(i) Play only what you hear. (ii) If you don't hear anything, don't play anything. (v) Leave space - Create space, - intentionally create places where you don't play.

That's the same as saying to an actor, 'Take your time'.

Trust him to put his hand straight on the best bit.

We went and bought his last two chairs, some extra cutlery, and the china. He said again how lovely it was to listen to me speaking.

I've left the funniest till the last. He forgot to bring the blinds! Well, really, it was delicacy; I think he actually thought we were just going to ask Prim to do them. So he's asked us to lunch on Monday! Dear little thing. He was so adorable today screaming with laughter at Prim saying 'When I had the sewing-machine electrocuted' like a child at a panto.

Out with Philip Draycott to the new play at Stratford East. Picked up tickets at 6.30, had a drink, walked round poor butchered Stratford. The play, set aboard R.N. frigate, usual careful regional assortment, but whole thing much better than that suggests. Really very well acted, theatre full and loving it. Alas second act lost its way a bit, but all could have been so easily pulled together, and transferred. John Branwell, Gary Roost and Louis Mellis specially good. To Cafe des Amis enjoyed my meal immensely. P.D. needs a boot occasionally, but I love him in some funny way, because he needs me.

Monday May 16 1983

Did various jobs and collapsed generally yesterday. Another lovely day today.

Got to the flat about 1.15 after my first interview for Felix. Went all right, I think. Flat like a new pin despite Sunday lunch yesterday. Prim already there. He'd done ham and a lovely salad, peppers and mushroom chopped up, a lettuce which turned out to be whole. Cheese. Nice wine. Dear dear little boy. Prim did the blinds sitting on the floor after lunch, much laughter, real delight. I sat and relaxed in what I'd done. Prim left, he started to put the blinds up. They went a bit wrong, he lost his temper again really violently! Said savagely, 'There’s no way I can go out tonight, no way! It was already too late for the film. Oh my ruined outings that I so look forward to. He recovered, and we went out, after he'd despaired of the jobs he had to do, which seemed to consist only of stamping and addressing two envelopes. He read out his letter to the bank-manager, very good. Asks for an overdraft of £600 till end of July. What's going to happen then? Didn't offer to do anything as he's already borrowed £500. During dinner I was rather worried by the conversation. He talked a lot about my talking about D., and how he was the only person who hadn't known her. 'You know what's happening to me, don't you?' No, I don't, but apparently he's going to tell me in a letter or on tape. (He'd sent off a tape to Sue Bird, - I don't know what about, just a friendly letter, I hope!) It worried me because I suddenly felt that, in spite of trying so hard to stand back from him and not to swamp him I haven't succeeded and he's feeling swamped. He assured me a number of times that he doesn't mind hearing about D. and he does ask - he brought her name up tonight. Am I asking too much of him, and expecting too much of a boy of 22? Perhaps that's why he shows temper, 'only with me' he said, 'and only because of material things'. He said again that Glyn and I were his only real friends, yet quiet often he refers, as he did this afternoon, to 'all my friends were knocked out by episode 6', and 'I told you you didn't know everything about me', which gives me an idiotic pang every time. Idiotic because it's certainly true that an awful lot of the friends must know a great deal less about him than I do! It's partly jocular, of course, but is it also, to tie it up with the D. thing, an expression of his not quite wanting to be entirely known?

And yet tonight he also told me about his English teacher, Mr. Doyle, 55, little beard. K. always bright and trying, and did well. Mr Doyle obviously resented him in some way. Anyway, one bad day, he took him to task over some work, and out in the passage went at him and simply tore him apart. 'I wept simply buckets'. Dreadful little man, he probably had enough discernment to sense originality, and enough smallness to want to drag it down.

Called at the house to borrow the camp-bed and bedding for his elder bro, Phil, to stay. Let's hope that the wisdom of real love that I talk about so glibly, will help me. I don't know that I could face myself if I harmed him in any way. Oh god, how I love that boy.

Tuesday May 17 1983

Found I had left my umbrella in K's car. This has been and still is the wettest year yet. I was going to see Bruna Vanelli, my new agent, and needed it. So taxi'd to K's in the middle of a lot of other jobs. Dashed in, and his bro Phil had arrived. Just a hand-shake and a word, and the impression is the father all over again. Downbeat and a bit limp. I love K at moments like that - sudden and unexpected. I see his affection for me more clearly because it leaps out at the surprise.

Saw Bruna. She is sensible and not stupid. Better without Felix. I think we can deal. No suggestions, but I liked her for no false promises.

Wednesday May 18 1983

Ian Burns came to lunch and stayed for the afternoon. He is very easy, and good company. He told me all about a possible house in Peckham, sounds a real bargain at £29,000. He did it again, went down and made some more coffee! Then washed up, all without asking. Ah well, they mean well. Told me he gave his mother a cannabis cake without telling her! We played a lot of tapes and sang a bit together! He left at about 6.15 to go off and do 'Blood Brothers'. I closed the door behind him, and complete loneliness and desolation settled over me again. It isn't K., it isn't. It's something else, I don't really know what. An awful ache, a panic, a feeling that all is slipping away, an emptiness. I must not focus it on K. He has given, and is giving, me, all that any friend ever has. Much much more than I could ever have expected from a boy of his age. He is so much more perceptive than I ever imagined in the way he's given it.

No, it's not him and I must be very careful to return his unselfish love in kind.

It's a purposelessness which is certainly assuaged by his presence. No, I can't analyse it further. I expect it's probably prolonged idleness, and running out of resolution or means to bear it much longer.

By the way, I must be firmer with K. about theatre and film dates, or we'll never get to anything at all.

Thursday May 19 1983

And yet, and yet, perhaps it is K. His mother rang tonight, and we had a long talk, 'Ernest is in the greenhouse, so he won't know how long and expensive it's been'. I told her a bit about the move, carefully edited.

At the end of the call I felt much much better. Now, of course, a long talk with anyone after a completely lone day would make me feel better. But K's mother - ? I can't decide. Certainly I do often feel deep pain that I can't spend my whole life with him. But usually I can contain that pain by reminding myself that he has offered me as much of his life and friendship and love as anyone has ever offered me, - he has let me into his life as completely as anyone ever has, except D. and I married her. Our relationship would be very close and remarkable if we were the same age. As it is, it is not just remarkable but miraculous.

I think it would be really wicked of me not to be happy for him. I a lonely, but he can't be blamed for that. He has certainly done more than anyone to fill that loneliness. I need only look at the keys.

Friday May 20 1983

Met Crispin Redman for lunch at Chez Solange Wine Bar. There is an amused considerate wry expression that is very beguiling. I'd brought a list of possible audition pieces. I'm glad I advised him to do the St. George's, Tufnell P. job. It's humdrum, third-rate, and I think oddly for that reason he is beginning to find himself. The food leaves something to be desired - a raucous sauce on the chicken.

To an excellent scifi film, 'Android' optimistic in a dotty way. Excellent perf. from Max, whoever he was. I would like to see him every day, but I mustn't tell him.

Saturday May 21 1983

My dry throat has turned into a streaming cold Outrage!

Took my shoes in the afternoon to be soled and heeled at last. Sent back to makers, £24.! In the evening pulled myself together, tho' still streaming, to go out to dinner with Lynda at Nikita's, the Russian restaurant opposite Martin's in Ifield Rd. Beautifully dim lighting for my poor eyes and nose. Reasonable food. My duck did not fall of the bone as it should, and service was a bit slow. I would say it has been better than it is. But my first, a little quail's egg pastry barque, was delicious.

I really love Lynda, - she loves a gossip, but with heads left on, as I like. She has a warm heart and a good head. I was glad to re-affirm our friendship by this evening, as I am sure she has a bad time ahead. I must make it clear in my thank you letter that I'll help.

Yes, I do dislike not having spoken to him since Tuesday. But I'm not frantic and despairing as I would have been six months ago. As I was. Now I rather dislike disliking it! There are still the last flickers of obsession fluttering around which must be got rid of. Wanting to know everything somebody's doing, needing to know, is evidence of insecurity. I know he's my true friend, and that is enough. Any other little feelings I have are unreal and must be stamped on, for they have nothing to do with him.

I got £747 from social security today, for last year's dole! Forgot to say that his mother said on the 'phone, 'When Phil said how nice the flat was, I thought you must have chosen most of the furniture.' Well, really. That's quite a barb.

Sunday May 22 1983

Worked in the garden for about 2 1/2 hours and got rid of the cold that way. Planted K's cannabis seeds. Strange to be breaking the law.

Monday May 23 1983

Spent an utterly empty day, feeling there was nothing I could do. I couldn't write or work on the Nicholson. In the afternoon went briefly to Gloucester Rd nursery, and bought his herbs. I left a note on the stairs saying 'I have a funny feeling you're calling round. Well, I ... 'Of course he hadn't. But not of course. At 7.30 the bell rang, and it was him. He's had a cold, too, and been bad. Didn't go with Bob to the clubs and so on. He only stayed a quarter of an hour for a quick drink, on his way to the Lyric Ham. to the first night of the Shared Experience peasant plays. Bob Mason was going with someone who may give him six films to write music to. Short ones, I presume.

I was so thrown by him appearing that I couldn't remember what was opening until he'd gone. I had admitted to myself in the late afternoon that I was simply missing him very badly. When he'd gone, I saw even more clearly, by the way in which my whole self and evening were changed, how vital and central he is to me. When I said to him (and so early when I think) 'You have burst my whole life wide open' or words to that effect, I didn't realise that that explosion would still be pushing down walls and breaking banks a year later. I am not crying or despairing or suicidal. I am looking in the eye, the fact that I cannot live without him. He's the first thing I think about in the morning, the last thing at night. I plan and arrange all the time for him. Even if I found he'd been deceiving me all the way round (how?) it wouldn't now make any difference. I am making a new will just for him.

Now I'm not going to be any sillier about this. I know he wants telling off and controlling. He wants it, I mean, as well as needing it. And he'll get it from me, because we have that to and fro. But I have to put down that he has destroyed my peace of mind, most of my capacity to be alone, to read seriously. I think that will come back as I advance further into the confidence of our friendship, just as I have abandoned most of the despair of obsession. But, as these tides ebb and flow, let me never forget the pure (yes, pure) happiness he has brought me. I opened the door tonight, and simply moved through an arc of joy till he left. He did burst open my life, but it needed it, and he's healing it.

Tuesday May 24 1983

Bruna rang. 'Stay by the phone'. So there I was waiting for another sort of call. Eventually at 5.20, she'd arranged a voice-over, for Weatherall double-glazing. Well, I've never had a voiceover from Derick, and it's £75 for an hour. So.

Hoped he'd ring to give me news of last night, but no. Well, it is difficult at the moment, with no 'phone. And I will conquer the resentful loneliness that rises so in me. I'll put down some of my bad thoughts to exorcise them. That he only bothers with me when he wants something. That I'm sure he's found time to ring his girl-friends. That there are many things he hasn't told me. That he laughs at me behind my back. And so on. They rise to disturb my sleep, and my reason.

The truth of our friendship lies quite elsewhere. With my reason. I knew it would be quite likely he'd go off for a bit, after being in my company every day for three weeks, and after being under such a lot of obligations. I mean, the borrowed money alone is enough to drive him away - not that it did before. And he hasn't been driven away, anyway, - it's only a week or so since I had lunch and dinner with him, and he came round yesterday!! So you see, it is very necessary to try and control the irrational part of oneself which makes up fantasies of torment that have nothing to do with K. himself.

Wednesday May 25 1983

Decided to call on K. after my voiceover, at 1.0, as he's only four stations or so away. To Molinaire studios in Gt. Marlborough St. Usually glossy reception but - a nice change - a self- operated coffee machine. Nicholas Courtney turned up - and he went with Felix and Grania last week, too. Grania! How did I dredge up that name from the past? Bruna. We went upstairs to the studios, quite comfortable and clean for a change. One of the commercials was in form of an exchange between critics at a Royal Academy show, the other announcing the results of a by- election. The product was Weatherseal Double-Glazing. Oh, it was ever so funny. Hm. Rather to my surprise I was asked to replace the main 'part' in the second one, which at first I wasn't in. Got away about two, and went off to Bryant Wood Rd. He wasn't in but it all looked lovely. A huge pile of clean washing-up on the sink, looking as if he'd had ten people to dinner, more likely ten meals for him in a row unwashed! Was just writing him a note, when he came in, with dear little Liz Kitchen. I'd noticed a girl's suede jacket on the chair, and wondered... Actually I don't think they had spent the night together, though he has a funny way of returning to his old girl-friends, and later on, they may - but we'll see. They were a little elevated from the pub, and Liz grabbed my letter and started to read it. Oh dear, I do dislike it that youngsters aren't taught what not to do. I daresay she would say, 'I'm not ashamed to let anyone read my letters.' I daresay.

She's a dear little girl. He was worried one way and another. He'd had his first mortgage check bounce! and a firm letter from his bank manager, which he'd misunderstood as a refusal of the overdraft, when in fact the man wanted some proper security, such as the deeds of the flat. When K. wrote, he only said he'd bought a flat, he didn't prove it.

He'd liked the plays on Monday a lot, 'the timing' he mentioned. I must go. He had dinner after with Bob and Bob's agent, of Goodwin Associates, Phil Kelvin, a woman. They'd had that old talk about integrity. 'If you want to do a show with a message, do it. If you lower your sights to become rich and famous, you can never get back.' She sounded all right, but the issue isn't as clear cut as that, especially as K is not a writer - He's very impressionable, dear little thing. I'm learning to cope with that quite well. They were going into the park to eat. They said come, too. I felt I was butting in, three's company but then felt so lonely I went. And I don't think they felt three's company etc. It was the first really hot sunny day - Liz said, as she came out, and stretched out her little arms, 'Feel it, feel it.' They'd just cut the grass, it smelt delicious, like cows, they ate their sausage rolls, we drank two bottles of wine, 1 red 1 white. They passed his guitar from hand to hand, and sang sweet songs and silly ones, made up a blues on the things going on round us. Liz threw some grass at me, and I chased her. K. sang the first song he ever wrote - again. I read the script of a short TV film which Bob wrote the other year about a boy getting expelled from school and winning a poetry competition and being reinstated, it seems. Phil Kelvin thought the Sid Vicious idea no good at all, - a sensible woman. This is quite good, the best dialogue of Bob's so far. (I wonder if he quite knows how bad the poem is!) It's pretty short, and would need expanding more than the numbers - not necessarily a bad thing, but it's a bit like making a musical out of an episode of 'Grange Hill.'

We got back about 5.15 for her to pull herself together for 'Blood Bros.' I left almost at once as I thought they just might want a quick friendly fuckette. He said he wouldn't come out tonight, because Liz had lectured him about working. Good.

Thursday May 26 1983

He rang up at lunch-time - well, 2.30, as I'd ordered, and said he hadn't been able to get hold of Bob, who he's got to see on Fri or Sat. I'd said a bit yesterday about the difficulty of planning my social life. He was v sweet and said arrange something if it turns up. 'It's only till I get my telephone.' Which is true. What is more irritating than trying to get hold of two separate people wandering between yr flat and a pay-phone a hundred and fifty yards away? I shouldn't have mentioned it. It's because I can't say what I really want to say is, 'If there's the slightest chance that you might ring, let alone us go out together, then I can't go out in case I missed you.' What is disgraceful is the possible danger of telling him off for my inability to master my obsession. Have fixed his parents for Tuesday. You know, I don't think any of his friends, except Glyn, have met his parents.

In the evening, I…

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 47

May 26 1983. - July 18. 1983.

NOTE INSERTED: July 83 hottest on record.

Thursday May 26 1983 (cont.) took Prim to the Lyric, Ham. to see the plays K. saw on Monday. Oh dear. Peasant plays. Loose brown homespun costumes. Out-front 'frank' playing. Open-voiced lyrics starting, 'Powerful farm-worker', from a girl with bad legs. Uneasy translation from 15th C. Ruzante. Sam Dale not bad, but you never get really good actors to be in this sort of thing, because, for one thing, you need a lack of humour even to consider it. I was alternately crushed with tedium and convulsed with laughter at the solemn intensity of it all. Both of us were helpless at 'Powerful farmworker', and her poor dirty feet. We left at the interval, as the call of asparagus and halibut was stronger.

Dear little thing, I don't think he can have enjoyed it at all, but it's the first thing of that kind he's seen, and I remember so well, the first of a kind always takes one in because you have no scale for it.

I was pleased that I managed not to talk about K., except in the most ordinary way. But there's no doubt that he is now the very centre of my life. I do try to keep it to the rational part of it, but I can't give up a chance of seeing him as yet.

Friday May 27 1983

And yet I must. It isn't fair to him to sit in the house, unable to go out in case he 'phones. It isn't fair because it suggests insecurity, which is in my head, and not in his friendship. If I miss him, I miss him. There's the rest of our lives, not to mention next Tuesday!

Saturday May 28 1983

Another idiotically miserable day. I just mustn't do it, sitting wondering why he couldn't spend either Fri. or Sat. with me. Really. Perhaps he worked with Bob both days. And if he didn't, I have no right to speculate. I must not do it. I must trust him and offer him unquestioning love and friendship.

Simon rang! Lunch tomorrow. Thank God.

Sunday May 29 1983

My right arm is very painful. I strained it during my move, did nothing, and it very slowly got better. I must have done it again in K's move. Went to the acupuncture clinic on Friday. It helped, but have wanked each day since, which doesn't help, as gripping and lifting is what hurts! Writing hurts a bit, too.

To Simon's at 12.45. Flat a terrific mess. More books and records and tapes than ever. An immediate unburdening of my spirit - so wonderful to be able to say everything. Martin's was closed, so we went to Jake's. Good. He's got a cheque for £20000 but it'll take a month to clear. Strange. Gave Janet Amsden £500 for a holiday - it bounced! Made a date with K and me for Monday week!

Ian Burns and Myrielle came to dinner. Their little girl aged 2? came as well. She went to bed fairly soon. Myrielle was getting at Ian about security and getting on. She overstepped the mark about the theatre, which she gave up because of the lack of security obviously, yet still reserves the right to talk with an artist. I am not in the least sorry to say that I made her cry. She is too sure of herself too early; I won't have such talk in my house, where great sacrifices have been made.

His parents will be with him now - they were arriving about five.

It turns out he was at the sci-fi play in the Studio!

Monday May 30 1983

He brings his parents and Nigel to dinner tomorrow. And on June 14 it's a year since he came to stay with me - not till then - only a year. It isn't an exaggeration to say that he's one of the three people in my life to have altered the time scale for me.

And bringing his parents to me is a watershed. So I think I'll describe him today - this the moment, I think.

Well now. He's 22, a little shorter than me, about five feet ten or eleven. He's broad shouldered, very slim, narrow hips, long legs with a slight curve back to them, big feet size ten. He's straight-backed, walks quickly, lies down at the slightest opportunity. Is all over graceful and easy in all his movements, never looks awkward or ill at ease physically. Has no physical inhibitions, very quick reflexes as a driver, and, judging by his own and his lovers' comments, is the same in bed.

His hair is medium brown with lights in it, (when I first met him it was King Charles locks, then last summer lightened to fair with blond streaks) and very thick. Again graceful in its growth, it always looks attractive, combed or uncombed. It's perfectly natural at the moment, and suits him v. well. Face is oval, well-shaped like his head and everything about him, skin fair, a little transparent, fine-textured, shows quickly then he's tired or upset. Brows fairly thick and finely marked. Beard same colour as his hair. Mouth full-lipped, with a pronounced tilt upwards at the corners, the top lip with a special fullness in the middle. Eyes large, well-opened, pale bright blue - a touch of green - can flash brilliantly - the eyes with the stare of a dreamer and visionary. Hands not specially big, long flexed fingers, tops turning up slightly. Arms not very hairy, nor body, legs quite.

A sunny nature most of the time. A ready laugh, a lovely grin, which nobody can resist echoing, with his head thrown back. As far as I can tell, extra fine senses. Certainly his nose, if he is to be believed, is of extra keenness. Equally certainly, his reaction to food is ecstatically keen or disgusted. His sight is keen, it seems, his touch, well, he's a drummer, and his lovers again... and his ear, well, he's a musician!

Altogether, he can give not just the impression, but the reality of radiant youth. I once wrote to him - have I put it in here? - that he has the rarest gift, or intense feeling. That feeling shines thro’ his appearance.

I forgot his nose. Finely cut, turning up v. slightly at the tip.

It may seem that the word 'well-shaped', 'finely' and so on, are simply my partiality. Not at all, I think anyone would admit that he has an appearance of the utmost distinction. After all, look at Dinah Sheridan...

Tuesday May 31 1983

Spent the entire day getting ready for them, putting the dining-table in the study. Going to Harrods for smoked salmon, the cheese, and the ice-cream. Greengrocers on way home. Then out again separately for meat and drink because of my arm, which is still v. painful and weak. Hurts to write. Had time to bath at 4.30 and lie down. They arrived about 5.30, and I was immediately enveloped in that slack tepid 'family' atmosphere we all know so well. I realised at once we'd have to eat earlier than 8.0, or the talk would falter. I have nothing to add to what I said about them at L'pool. She has a barb on her tongue at times. He scarcely asserts himself at all, except negatively.

Oh, it was fascinating to see K. The moment he could get a private word he got it. 'I can't stand this, they're staying till Saturday, take them to the theatre, I won't come' etc. etc. We went into the garden, in a giggling soto voce conspiracy, to look at the cannabis.

Later he began to argue oh, so recognisable and nearly caused a nasty scene. Later still, I sensed a double need. I attacked him about the Covent Gdn night. This had the double effect of making them turn in his favour again, because they'd been getting cross, too. And distracting them from thinking that I spoil him. Of course they think of me as in a similar relationship to him as they are.

He is still of course trying to explain and convince, in fields that they can never be explained to or convinced by. Indeed K revealing even the beginning of the intensity of his feelings upsets and disconcerts them.

He was passionate about his old music-master, who he felt betrayed him. A lot of the evening was very boring to me in itself, but never without interest because, in the ultimate intimacy, K. was sharing it with me. He was often convulsed at my quickness of tongue, especially with Nigel; I'll describe him tomorrow. My arm's too bad. I'm so glad to do all this for them, as it is a way of expressing my love for him.

He forgot how I liked the coffee, and used instant. That hurt me, but it was the only blot. I think and plan for that boy all the time. He's done nothing about the bank.

Wednesday June 1 1983

My arm stops me catching the flow. Still - Nigel is closed, a lot of the time, in the rigid corset of adolescence. Silent, apparently sullen. But as the evening went on, he came out and was jokey, as only a 15 year old can embarrassingly be. Tonight over dinner, he said his father was 94, and laughed a lot.

He's nice-looking, with a round face, quite good features, not really like K. The greatest likeness to K. is his legs! but it's impossible to tell what his character is. Considering his difficult age, he's amiable.

Took them to 'Mr Cinders'. K did cry off. I wondered what my friends would think, seeing me take these two nice dull little people to a show I'd seen before. After the Cafe des Amis. Conversation limped badly, as they know and see little, and have little vitality. He's better than her, and dimly knows there's a world elsewhere. The moment we were alone, as before, he was asking my advice about K. Told me how he'd put his foot in it talking about is music. 'I can't be doing with this electronic music, and when he'd gone on at it for a time and then got up and said 'Well, that's done', I said I was glad that was over'. He seemed surprised at K. being miffed.

They drove me home. As he got back in the car, he called 'Go on keeping Kevin in order'. I think he loves K. more truly than his mother does.

Thursday June 2 1983

Forgot to record that on Tuesday, just before his private mutter to me, the moment he was alone in the d-room, he'd gone to the cigarette-drawer and pinched the one packet that was there for him, not knowing that I'd got five packs for him in a carrier-bag to take away. Also that he showed them the bit about me in the Diana Rigg book. Amazing.

3.0

He's just gone. He dropped from picking his ma up at Harrods. 'Thanks for your letter. It warmed me right through. Saturday is on. I'm hating it. O God if only they weren't so thick.

He could only stay for five minutes, but there was such complete communion between us, me yammering out a few bits about them, too, and so obvious was it that he was gulping a few breaths of my company to sustain him over the next two maddening days. I shut the door on him, in a state of intense joy as I have very seldom felt.

I'd written to give advice, but also to provide a bit of my voice for him to stand and hear with them milling maddeningly round. ('No Madame Tussaud's for Nigel, he's just a brat'.) The advice was 'Don't argue. Don't let them see the intensity of yr. feelings. It'll only upset you and worry them.’ And so on. I also said about the Covent Gdn. bit, 'Hope it didn't disconcert you. I thought you knew that we are together against the world.

Sunday June 5 1983

Arm still bad.

Friday I went to the acupuncture place again. Doesn't seem to have helped. To new David Bowie film 'The Hunger and came out. Quiet evening.

Waited in all Sat. in gradually increasing irritation for K to ring. Had to go out to bank and so on at 3.45. Waited at cinema in miserable rage, and came home. He rang at 7.15 - they hadn't gone. He'd rung before. Could I make it tomorrow. I said I'd cancel Philip D., and put the 'phone down in something of a tetchy huff. 20 mins later 'phone. K. still out of breath to say they'd gone. Could I come round, he couldn't think straight while they were there. He'd cook me dinner. Could I? I dressed, I was in the bath - and in a flash... armed with gin, etc.

He was so funny and sweet, describing - 'I'll give you an action replay' - how he came back into the flat after they'd gone, saying 'Hello flat, it's going to be all right, they've gone. Hello, hi-fi, Nigel's not going to be pressing yr. knobs any longer' and so on. He made me shriek with laughter. Over drinks he told me that he knew now that it was over, they'd lost him. 'It's all down here now'. Of course, I've always known that would happen, which is why I've attempted to make some kind of home for him here. He cooked a spaghetti dish, which he thought horrid and I thought nice. As we ate so late, I stayed the night, on my own put u up bed. His father and mother had bought him a duet cover all printed with music, and pillow-slips with the piano keyboard inaccurately printed on them. Oh dear.

He often returned to his parents. It's really hit him.

I made him read the Covent Gdn entry. His face was a mask of hurt at the end of it. I wished I hadn't. He wants me to meet Phil, the bass player next week, 'the last of my M'chester friends left'.

Got up v. late for me, actually slept till 10.30. As I knew he was along the passage, I suppose I wasn't worrying as I usually do. He played three pieces at the synth., about moving in to the flat and other feelings. No words, though Bob M. was mentioned. Perhaps they're bits and pieces for the new show. 2nd one my favourite, but I feel v. much about his music straight away. A musician could no doubt discuss technical merits or demerits.

Played a tape of a wonderful singer, what was his name? Al? Gerome? Virtuoso voice in every direction. Put on 'Oliver' when he went out to the shops, which he much admires. I stayed till 6.0, when I went to meet Philip D. It seems to me, I hope to him, that we are really relaxed and together as friends now. I think he could compose with me in the room - I may be wrong.

And how we laugh. When I left he said yet again, how his parents visit had hit him. I said it had to be, he'd got me, 'and you are very much loved'. He said, 'It's good to know that.'

I cannot imagine life without him now.

Monday June 6 1983

I don't know how it can go on getting better and better, but it does. We met at Tutton's, and went to Cafe du Jardin for lunch. All right. K kept listening to the talk at the next table, and described it so wittily. After we went to Light Fantastic and ordered a light to hang over his hologram. £35. I was relieved that he said his was nicer than any in the gallery. At last we went to 'Tootsie' and thoroughly enjoyed it. Of its kind first-rate. I love watching him laugh. Back home here, - it was a lovely sunny warm day. He marched straight out onto the balcony, set up the garden chairs, and took his top off. He's decided to get a tan this year - first time ever. I noticed he's got a little hair on his chest, quite a little fringe round each nipple and a faint patch high up in the middle. Dear little object. He had a couple of aspirins for a headache, but seemed in fine form. The next hour was pure joy. There's an unmistakable tone to complete confidence between two people. In his face and voice there was no barrier - I saw right into his spirit - this is the friend, the son of my dreams.

He talked a lot about women. 'It's incredible how two-faced women are. Modern girls are so aggressive, they really have been affected by feminism. And they behave so differently with you. But then all my friends do. They can't seem to take you as a real person as I can. Shall I ever meet a woman like you? Shall I ever find a woman who can be a friend like you? Suddenly, in that last sentence, I realised that I was, in truth, at the very centre of his life, in his heart of hearts. This was the real K. I mentioned his first visit. 'You know, it's funny, I used to pour it all out to everyone like that, but since I did it to you, I haven't done it to anyone.' I said, 'Well, perhaps I was the first person fully to accept it all, and really take you on'. 'Yes, I suppose that's it.'

He said it wasn't till Sunday, when I said it yet again, that he really admitted to himself that Studio was a complete dud. 'You were right'. That adds to his apprehension about the future. His 'phone is in - we dialed the no. and heard it ring, so he can get his affairs in order.

He talked of another student friend, Billy, a violinist. Joe C. is streets ahead of K., he says, well, Billy is streets ahead of Joe. 'He's a fucking genius'. The only thing that frightens me about all these friends is that he never seems to write to them or speak to them. Oh, it's agony to me that D. will never meet him. How she would have cried at this. 'When I first went to the RNCM I'd never been in the same room with a grand piano - I'd only seen one in a concert hall or in a shop, from a distance. Suddenly there was this row of rooms, each with a wonderful new Bosendorfer in each room. And I ran and sat and played for three hours.’ The tears rolled down my face.

Off we went to Simon's. K. was adorable. We went to Park Walk, the talk spun along. I hardly remember any of it, - getting up to date with Simon's news telling about the new flat. I was so happy looking at the two people I love most on earth, that I don't remember any of it. And I got drunk. K. said why couldn't he arrange a no. for Wayne Sleep.

Tuesday June 7 1983

Hope his 'phone is working. Rang a few times from 12.0 till 11.30, no answer. I didn't think he was going out all day, but he did say he was going to clear up a lot of things. So perhaps he had a blitz, went and saw Patricia, I hope. It is really awful how much I miss him. Even after all that time spent with him, and such time - I have no right to feel the day empty without him.

Going to see Neil's physiotherapist after Ron Berglas to lunch. I'll see him tomorrow when he comes over to vote. But I must get myself straight about him - it's so good it must be right.

Wednesday June 8 1983

Still very hot and sunny and the garden looks lovely. Rang K. again, and got no ringing tone. Reported it out of order. After a wait, they said, 'It is an unallotted line.' !

Ron Berglas came to lunch. We've made it up, and I'm glad really. He was respectfully thrilled to be here again. Sometimes v. funny in the New York jewish way. 'I'm doing a De Ghederode play for a friend. Half an hour in the middle of every evening - to nine or ten people. 'How many does the place hold?'. 'More'.

At the end of lunch K. rang. 'Phone in order for the first time, despite ringing tone yesterday. So I got first call, and he said 'Now ring me, so I can hear bell for the first time.' Did so. 'It sounds lovely.' He's coming to lunch and vote tomorrow.

To sci-fi play, at Lyric Studio, that he went to first night of. Hilarious. Philip Driscoll specially good. Might be improved by a good director, but the most skilful fringe so far. Home to quiet supper, which I enjoyed.

Thursday June 9 1983

He rang at five to one to say he wouldn't come, as a lot's been happening. David G. has commissioned them to do 'The Plastic Mac'. Thank god, thank god. K. must not, cannot be disappointed in his career. I feel such a passion of protectiveness towards him. He's coming at 3.0 to spend the afternoon.

He arrived about 3.0, oddly enough, calling 'Hallo' in a way he hasn't before, playful, almost a funny voice, out the other side of intimacy. He sat on the red sofa - I was on the pink one - and said he'd never talked to me before without me being in my armchair. We talked of the new musical. Bob M. is 'knocked out' by the music he sent him, 'that I played to you the other day'. David G. wants to be closely concerned with the creation of it when he gets back. That pleases both of us, as K. will need some real theatrical expertise. He said quite a bit about the sort of new English musical he wanted to write, with no pastiche nos. at all, like Waiting and my no. in 'Wayne's Dad', 'The headmaster, for instance, could be like Toyah in Tanzi, suddenly put on a punk-wig and do a punk no.' He took that back almost at once, but I saw what he meant. No going back to reassure the audience. He despises Andrew L-W for his simply determining to be successful and beat the Americans at their own sort of musical. Certainly it's true that the very striking British pop music has made no impact, or indeed entry, into the British Theatre, nor has that vast audience been tapped. So he and Bob are going to talk around it and have ideas and he'll write music, and then start serious writing when D. G. gets back.

But I could tell he was brimming with something else, - he looked almost different. Then he told me, - he's started writing. First, the diary of his life since '77, from his engagement diaries. He's written 100 pages, and only got to ‘78. The weekend changed him in some way, and the night with Simon. He's written some lyrics, too, and quoted one verse, (though he kept insisting it wasn't poetry or verse!)

Like sword cutting liquid I see with my eyes The fourth dimension The blue of the sky.

He says he can see the video, or a new sort of video. The diary has obviously staggered him, by the speed and length of it. He wrote most of yesterday. 'Yes, I know I'm changing, I feel it.' I produced the 82-83 diary I saved from the waste-paper basket. He was stunned 'How did you know I'd want it?' 'Well, you're more like me than you think.' 'I'm beginning to realise that'. He said he often thought he was thick - I tried to show him that he couldn't be my friend if he was. 'The best-read man I know', Simon said. I say, 'intellectual to a fault'. So he can't be thick , and he isn't, but he's spent much time with thick people because he thought he was thick and was nervous of cultivated people. I think I am breaking this down. And I think it has messed up his girl friends, too. What he needs is a girl with a mind and the capacity to respond to the depth and intensity of his feelings. I must say that to him often.

Over the weekend also, he had a think about his girl-friends, and got them down to two (except for casual affairs and encounters and screws and fucks or whatever), Sue and Linn. I said he wasn't going to start again with Sue, 'no, but I want it cleared up and our friendship on a sound basis. I want to know why she wanted to sleep with me the other month at Badminton.' And Linn? 'I rang her, and she told me that last August her father was and still is desperately ill, and she needs Robert (her live-in musician lover) for support. The moment her father got better, as he did every now and then, she and Robert started to quarrel, and so that's why....' She's coming round on Thursday, for the first time they'll be alone together with a bed. 'We'll see if she's just a bullshitter'. Of course he must investigate, but I don't trust her integrity an inch. My guess is that she loves intrigue and messy emotional, preferably unfinished, situations. I told him to keep his eyes open. Thank god I can always say now, remember Janet.

I asked him exactly why he’d said the other day he was going to start going to discos again. He said 'Because the last time I went to one. I was dancing by myself, as I generally do, and a girl came up and said 'Are you gay?' and said 'No', and half an hour later my cock was in her mouth. That was Sally.' 'Yes, I see'.

We talked of his shyness with women. It's not lack of sexual confidence, I mean, physical confidence. He told me that all the girls he had during 'Visiting Day' told him that it was the first time they'd had an orgasm. (Why only during 'Visiting Day'? ! I must ask him.) One of them was Sue, - 'that's why she kept coming back for more.' He says he never asks someone to dance - he somehow can't. In case he's rejected? I must ask him.

Certain it is that this weekend has been a watershed - the new flat the no work, the parents visit, the realisation about Studio, he's thought about and looked at himself, and is building the basis for a new start. All this just before the new job. Not nearly so important if it had been after.

We went out and voted together - for Ecology. Back here he felt hungry, it was four o'clock. I said 'Look in the fridge. His inability to decide between veal chop or omelette reduced us both to giggling wrecks. He tried to shut himself in the fridge. He had a chop, some mange touts and baked beans, and tea. Back upstairs I told him a bit more how much he meant to me, and said I'd no idea how he described me to others. ' "Angus is my friend." I say'. He said.

I didn't really mean that. I do know what I mean to him, by the extraordinary wonderful warming intimacy we have reached. To see him telling me his dreams, is - it is impossible to describe the feelings that rush through me at the thought. I know he depends on me greatly that I have possibly had more influence on him than anyone in his life so far. I know this now, and it is odd to think how unsure I once was of him.

And I suppose it is wrong of me to want him to say it more. He shows me with every confidence and every smile that he is mine, my son, my friend, the dearest person left in the world for me. Perhaps he is at last my link between tradition and eclecticism. Dearest Kevin, - I will be good to him.

Friday June 10 1983

Rang K. about 2.0 and he said Saturday. Good. John and his Simon came to dinner. Very agreeable evening, except that I have received a salutory lesson. John is the only other besides Simon C. I talk to properly about K. The result is I went on too long and he told me so.

I must not, however pleasant it is, to me. It is so boring for others, and so wrong. How K. would hate me if he knew. I won't. I really won't.

Sunday June 12 1983

I am feeling strange. Is it even strange? Even and flat. Cold even.

But not in the least low. In fact I think almost the greatest joy I've ever known is there, waiting to overwhelm me.

I'd better try chronology.

We met at Warners to see 'Educating Rita'. Went for a drink till the film. He'd forgotten cheque- book and card to make up for my lost one! He was still visibly in a turmoil. The film was uncannily apt for both of us, especially for him. Many lines of the aspiring Liverpool girl hit home. We laughed a lot. I love to see him laugh. We went to Plummer's, which he liked. He said Tuesday he'd got a surprise for me, I'd better book the table late. Then, so characteristically remembered that Phil the bass-player was coming to stay, so it couldn't be Tues. I didn't mind that it wouldn't be the actual anniversary of the day did I? Which I don't. More later. We talked of Lina. I said again to go gradually and not plunge in. He said, in again a tone I haven't heard before, that he didn't think he would. I realised as we went on that he has really reconsidered in some basic way, his attitude to women as well. He said 'You see, I was awful to Sue.' Yes, he was, tho' not more than other selfish young men. But his face when he said it. He also said that he'd always been a leader - even at five he organized the building of a puppet theatre. And Nigel still remembers with envy a go-cart K. built at 10, out of old desks stolen from an outhouse at school.

We'd finished dinner by ten. He said, 'Come back to my place?' There was his diary, an old school exercise-book more than half-full with quite close writing, and his ordinary diaries propped up for reference. He said he'd moved the TV into the bedroom because he felt he just sagged into watching too much. He must have read my mind.

We had a drink, and he rolled a joint. And started to read to me from the diary. With quite a cross look, 'Of course I'm only reading it to you.'

And I was amazed all over again. Perfectly plain perfectly clear, no pretension, no crudity. The main story unfolded, even more than I knew, was the violent effect Jenny Sheppard's rejection of him, had on his life. He' been taking it out, one way and another, on women ever since.

He read the entry from which the poem came. It was the first time he took a drug - a girl called Ginny gave him some hallucigenic mushrooms. They went punting. He learnt how to punt, and suddenly, lying in the punt, his first 'hit', as they call being affected by the drug. He saw the punt in the water, and the trees going past, and the dark blue sky, all separately from the fourth dimension. Then they had some sort of sex. That doesn't seem to have been special in any way, but he didn't go on about that.

He kept saying how he'd muddled things up in his mind. It turns out that he didn't sleep with Bill Snape, but did with Norman Holmes. Only as recently as on our way to Habitat, going past NH's flat, he told me he hadn't slept with N.H. 'Did I?' Well, I misconstrued it.' Ah, a good word for lying. However, it's of little import. I don't know why he should tell it the wrong way round unless it was genuine muddle. One must always remember the dream he lives in.

Told me about getting the clap from an American girl, Judith, he met at the Rock Garden. He got the job there thro' his other male lover, Simon Lee, a student at RNCM. Judith said he gave it to her, but as he didn't give it to Sue and A.N. other, with both of whom he had to go to the VD clinic, he reckons she gave it to him. It was a variety Tri something, where only the women get a discharge, the man has no symptoms at all. He had to take 10 tablets a day for a month.

But the dominating feature of this part of the diary, up to 78, is Jenny. No wonder that interview here was so traumatic.

I kissed him at the end of what he wanted to read. I couldn't believe that he had come through so far. His whole self has been shot through with fresh tenderness and he's seen so much much more.

In the morning he struck me further dumb by saying he'd read the last act of All's Well That Ends Well' in bed. An odd choice, recommended, I bet, by that ass, David Kitchen. Who's coming down to live in London, more's the pity. However, I trust K's good sense. As witness the diaries.

By now I had gone curiously quiet. I couldn't tell what I was feeling. I wrote it out. His turning so exactly into what I knew he could be, but only dreamed of, overturned me. Rather like D. agreeing to marry me. The removal of pressure. I wrote something like I have a son, a pupil an apprentice, disciple, and a teacher, an interpreter, a link between tradition and eclecticism, but mainly a friend, the friend of my dreams. I think I'll feel joy in this. I think I'll be happy. He read it.

'I'll keep this', with a speaking look, 'just be happy', be happy.

How he accepts it all.

Monday June 13 1983

Am beginning to be happy, no, I am totally happy about K.

But today had black patches - thinking of my career. I wept tears of frustration that I couldn't offer him a better career (of mine, I mean) for him to lean on and feel proud of. But I must put away those weak regrets, and build on his love for me. I sent him £50 for his newspaper bill, and a letter which I'll copy out in a minute.

He rang at 11.30 to say we'd meet on Sat. as the days with Phil were going to be too hectic. He started by saying 'I'm in love'. We laughed, but he meant it a bit. Last night he was at a dinner with Tracie Bennett, that girl he slept with once when he was up in 'Coronation St'. He has mentioned her once or twice lately, tho' he didn't when he said he'd got his girlfriends down to two! Well, he is obviously quite taken - oh the susceptible heart - I've never felt quite like this before. He's taking her out on Friday, her b'day. So she's Gemini. Last night he simply kissed her good night. 'I told you I'd changed.' Well, that is sensational especially as I presume she was available. I hope he doesn't think when I say not too fast too soon, he doesn't think I'm referring to bed. I also hope I wasn't insensitive at the beginning of the talk, when I didn't think he was serious. He wants me to meet her because I could help her. She's a bit in the same position as him - professionally. We're meeting on Sat. - I hope. I must steel myself to seeing much less of him in future. Difficult, as I depend on him for so much of my hope.

Tuesday June 14 1983

Neil came round looking radiant. This wonderful job has sobered him up very satisfactorily.

While he was here, K. rang up. 'I only ring up when I want something'. I don't think I recorded that I said that to him during our long talk about him and his changing self. There is something wonderful about his gentle taking of such things and admitting them and forgiving me for saying it.

Wednesday June 15 1983

K. rang up about 6.0 when I was doing the broad beans for the Barringtons. Would I do him a favour? Ring back. He'd put in his push-button 'phone, and thought he must have done it wrong, as he'd had no calls for two days. Did so. No go. He rang back, and tried three or four times. Success! Ian Burns at cic hadn't come round and they hadn't gone to the concert at Half Moon, Putney, cos no 'phone to arrange it all with.

Had he had my letter cos of the cheque? Yes, but he hadn't read it, because he'd had a terrible shock with another letter. They are taking him to court! Oh poor little morsel. We'll put it right. And that awful Kevin Gould has said he'll pay. We'll see. It's that wretched petrol pump exactly a year ago. He was upset.

Still Phil, who's staying till Friday, has been a comfort, I think. They've played together a lot - Phil brought his double-bass down, and they've taped quite a bit. 'You must hear it'.

Told him about ringing Roy and him being quite bland about not having done the typing. Ah well.

Curious to realise now that the day he arrived to live here was the day the Falklands War finished, - and neither of us noticed.

Barringtons sweet, but he looks ghastly, very thin, with a deathly rictus grin, and hardly able to move. Knuckles now very swollen. He ate sparingly, no coffee, I had to support him down the steps. It seems Derek Godfrey has had a serious bladder operation, and went into intensive care in his third week in hospital, and isn't expected to survive. Ba shed a tear, unknown. When they left, worst of all, she said, 'Well, it has been good to have a laugh. None of our other friends smiles any more.'

Oh dear, oh dear.

Thursday June 16 1983

To my physio therapist, whom I must describe one day.

Then to the barber, then to the new film by Erik Rotamer, 'Pauline at the Beach'. Mild, finished, enjoyable. Grilled a chop. K. is entertaining Linn. I hope, - if she hasn't cried off for the umpteenth time. It's a sign of his unusual attractiveness surely, that he can get a 35 year old secretary whom even Neil described as 'a real goer' to come to Holloway to see a 22 year old out of work musician. I am amused to find I am thinking about him so hard, that I keep half- expecting the 'phone to ring for him to tell me how he's getting on.

I hope I am getting rid of the bad parts of obsessiveness. Still, crossing under the motorway at Gunnersbury, my first thought was 'K and I must have seen this intersection on our way, to Badminton.

How is he fitting Linn in with Tracie tomorrow night? Here's the letter I wrote to him on Monday.

Dearest Kevin,

Here's the cheque for the S. Times, the Radio Times and the TV Times. I hope my arithmetic is right, and that it arrives on our little anniversary.

I have come out of my catatonic state of yesterday, you'll be pleased to hear, and am happy being happy, very happy.

Yes, bring Tracie to see me. I may say one thing to help. Or even two. I never turn away a young actor or actress without advice. And no, I won't take against her. When have I ever done that? It's just that I was a little thrown, because we have talked so deeply of yr. life lately, but only mentioned Sue and Linn. Not Tracie in any special way.

I wish you'd get it right into your thick he - I mean yr. very intelligent head, finally and for good that you are the person I love most in the world. I want you to be happy more than I want to be happy myself. I honestly believe I think more about your career than I do about my own. So it follows that any girl whom you love, and who truly loves you, must be part of my life, or I shall be utterly wretched.

This is a slightly more composed corollary to yesterday's note. I don't think anything in either of them will need to be said again.

All love.

Wednesday June 22 1983

The gap has been only because of stunned joy!

Quick resume.

Friday the 17th, I went to lunch with Ron Berglas. Glad we've made it up, tho' talk gets slow. He's made a great difference to the flat. Found a better way of getting there. In the evening took Elaine Gilmore out. How odd. She is really rather beautiful now, broad face, serene eyes. I was impressed by our sympathy, - her artistic judgments all matched with mine. I really liked her, and shall see her again. K. was entertaining Tracie, and I expected to hear about that when we met on Sat. But not in the way I did.

About two on Saturday he rang up and said could he bring Linn round!! Yes, I said, nearly dropping the 'phone. (Forgot to say that I did know they'd at last made love). He rang at 11.30 on Friday, 'Yes, she stayed; two hours ago she was lying beside me. Yes, I think I'll see her again. I think I've got it straight about her and Tracie.

So they arrived. For the first time I taped the talk, as far as I could - we were on the balcony - and the evening's talk with K. So I'll just set down the main things which have come home to me.

Linn is sweet, very very pretty, wonderful figure. Rather shy and vulnerable. A victim rather than a predator. Seems a bit too keen on dieting and fitness. But I really liked her very much. As far as one can at two hours talk. She certainly isn't having an easy time at the moment. Taking of fitness, K. said he'd been trying a few press-ups. We encouraged him and he did 20 in the garden, dear thin long thing. With a struggle.

But of course for me, the whole day can be reduced to two sentences. Linn said, 'I was nervous coming here, because I know you're very important to Kevin.' And in the evening K. said, almost, I think, without noticing, 'Put yourself in her position for a minute. She's between us in ages - she's 33, and my best friend is 56. Those words are on the tape, and I've replayed them a hundred times already. He said she was terrified of coming, 'doesn't that show you?' They left me, went back, and made love again. He said it was incredible, 'as if I'd never had it before.' Then he came back to me, and for the first time gave me a minute-by-minute account of the last three days. He really has altered, and Linn coming on top of the change in him that had already taken place, is wonderful for him. For instance, 'On Friday morning for the first time ever I got up and got her breakfast. We had it, and then I thought fuck it I'll get up, and threw on some clothes and walked her to the station'. It's interesting that I think he might have done that for his next lover because of his growing maturity, but it's nice it's Linn, whom he really seems to have fallen for. During the evening, he said at one point, 'I could stop it now, if I wanted.' I said I couldn't possibly advise him to do that. 'That's what I wanted to hear'. I asked him on Monday whether he'd meant he felt he was on a precipice - once over, no going back. Yes. So I hope, I do hope that all will be well. Because it looks to me as if he's going in deep.

But for myself that Saturday was a golden day. That he should bring somebody so important to him, to me so soon, shows me, more clearly and deeply than I could ever have imagined, how much he loves me.

He told me all about Tracie, too. It seems he didn't sleep with her in M'chester. He thinks she's still a virgin. I tackled him about having said he'd screwed her. It was a white lie, I suppose, a sentence which doesn't bear examination. However, he promised never to white lie again, and claims never to have 'really' lied to men ever! I suppose he sometimes takes the easy way out. It suddenly occurs to me that he might have said he slept with her. I have now realised that no longer means that they have necessarily fucked. And they didn't. He thinks he's started a real friendship with T., and if he and Linn don't go on, he can see he and T. might have a relationship, that is, an affair. He wants me to see her about her acting and XX problems. Good.

Another precious moment was him saying 'I just speak my mind to you, so I discover things about myself at the same time as you do.’ Saturday was just one of the most wonderful days of my life. The tapes are precious, the first time I've had his voice and laugh by me.

Sunday I wrote a bit and read a bit, and sunbathed a bit. But mainly I just sat in a golden dream, thinking about Saturday.

He rang on Mon, 12.0 ish to ask about 'Light Fantastic' and Light Preoccupied. Rang at 5.0. 'Have you seen that article in The Times?!

Rang him at six on Tuesday, in case we had a date, depending on Linn's date. It's very difficult for her to get free at the moment, as it has to be by lying. Also wanted to hear how he'd got on with Lionel Bart! He's with K's agent, who has brought them together. An excellent idea. He went to his flat at 11.0 and stayed with him till 6.0! Went out to lunch and met Francis Bacon! They started to work together, L.B. writing a 'really good' verse to something of Kevin's, as they were walking along the street. L.B. idea is about a fifty year old man and a boy of twenty or so. Good, for a basis, as it grabs two audiences. Lucky K., he doesn't have those acres of boredom and nothing I have always had. A new flat, a new love, a new famous collaborator. Goodness. All I have is Roy not sending back the Nicolson, Simon not starting to work on it, and Bruna not ringing up!

Still, something did happen on Monday. Arthur and Mercy's son, Philip, had rung up last week to say that one of his sons had developed an interest in mime - perhaps because he's dyslexic? - and is in fact performing in a disco or whatever called the Powerhouse in Birmingham, where they now live. It's a double act, with a friend, as a couple of robots, like Tic and Toc, whom he's met, and he's being paid for it, and he's 15! So. He was up in London with his father to compete in some dance thing run by the BBC prog. 'That's Life'. It was being held at H'smith, the Sundance Studios'. I said, 'Come to lunch or just a sit in the garden.' I know how tiring London can be to non-Londoners. P and son arrived about 3.30. He'd rung to say no lunch, he didn't like to leave the boy. It seems in B'ham a professional dancer called Simon Aimley had offered the pair to join him in his act! S.A. attempted to take part in the competition, but was turned away because he was a pro. Not very proey not to have known, I'd have thought. I'd been rather wary about him on the telephone. P. said 'Well, I know boys of 15 are very vulnerable'. I said, 'And very popular'. 'Now P.H. has met him, and the offer has been renewed. He wants them to come and live with him - the two boys, I mean - in his house at Shepherd's Bush while they rehearse! 'I don't think he's gay, Angus, he seems a decent enough straight chap. And he comes from Hull and has a Yorkshire accent.' !! I think P.H. is a bit of a fool.

The boy himself is shy, very quiet good-looking, with dreams in his eyes. (It's amazing - he's Pisces, too!) Hair dyed red-gold, a pity as he has a wonderful transparent complexion, the blood coming and going - he only contributed to the conversation with blushes - and the hair clashes. Very disconsolate. I don't think he should be, as it sounds a silly competition to me, or an honour to be kicked out before the last 50. And he may have a professional offer. It may be genuine after all, the man might just as easily have flattered him.

While he was having a bath, the father said, 'You remember he's the adopted one - he's very good at tumbling too. And do you know who his real father was? A Hungarian circus acrobat. And it's coming out.'!

He ate three rashers of bacon, two eggs, a lot of baked beans. Then 'I think I'll just have some bread and cheese before that ice-cream you mentioned.' Four bits of bread and cheese. Two big dollops of ice-cream. More bread and cheese. Four glasses of coca-cola. Only one real remark, 'Dad, why are the people and buildings so much nicer in London than in Birmingham?’ I've often wondered. A strong Brum accent tho' P. speaks like me. But a something did go between us, I think, when his father was weeing, he said, 'I've got a video of Tic and Toe. I'll show it you.' A lot for 15. We'll see.

Today I signed on. Still very hot, so more sun-bathing and depression. Only my happiness with and for K. keeps me going. Rang Philip D. and made a date to see the new Godard 'Passion' last day at Camden Plaza. Awful, walked out after twenty minutes He came back for supper, as he's living in Barnes just now. Very restless still, and unhappy really. Buying a new flat, and hates a job which goes into the New Year, which he must do to earn money.

Oh, K. gave Linn steak casserole and Tracie lamb.

Oh and Neil dropped in on Tues. and whisked me off to an impromptu barbecue - didn't please Linda much!

Thursday June 23 1983

Rang K. 12.0 to say his laundry was here, and Neil and Lynda were coming to dinner, in case he was anywhere near and wanted to drop in for a drink. I said 'Are you all right?' He said, 'No, are you all right?' On the phone on Tues. I'd said I was a bit low about work and so on. 'I rang back later on to have another chat, but you'd gone out.'

I said how about those big cushions for my spare-room bed. 'Well yes, but I've been thinking you needn't buy another bed. You've got that sofa-bed. That'll do for anyone young, or for one night. If you have anybody for longer, I'll bring the bed over. We won't want it at the same time.'

Nothing could show more vividly how he's changed from the boy who used to lie in bed watching me struggle with 3 full shopping bags.

He was seeing Simon Lee this p.m. one of his two male lovers. I don't know quite why Yesterday he worked with Lionel Bart again, and went to the Tricycle in the evening with him and Linn! He's got a friend in the play there - all black. Sounded goodish.

Evening with Neil and Lynda a success except that Neil was a bit frantic - had he had a snort? I do hate it when he eats the peanuts and olives greedily till they're all gone. He was on at me like Philip D. about foreign travel. K's voice had a whole new warmth and gentleness.

Friday June 24 1983

To the National with George Rowell to see 'Lorenzaccio', a collector's piece. I could scarcely have had a better companion for it. Tho' it isn't really a museum piece, rather a good play in its way. I wasn't a bit bored, despite Greg Hicks not being up to it. He's not a leading actor. His voice has no surprises or possibilities. Clive Arrindell as Alessandro, has all the purlities G.H. lacks, dash, range, a bit of danger. The rest of it, oh dear all that forced laughter and clinking of stage tankards, for all the world as if it were forty years or more ago. So much for modern rehearsals, 'in depth' etc etc.

To RSS after. I like George R. much more now.-+ He has more steel in him than I thought. I told him a little more of my real opinion of J Slade, and he took it very well.

K. with Lionel Bart all day today.

Sunday June 25 1983

K. rang at lunchtime on Sat. to say what time for the pictures. When I suggested a meal after, he said no, 'we're both out of work, we don't have to impress one another any more. I've got some chuck steak I got for Lionel Bart, come back and have that.' Good. Also 'Would you bring those flower pots for my pot?' 'And shall I bring the laundry?' 'Oh, Angus', 'No use using that melting tone to me - I can see through it now. 'Oh, well, that's the end of our friendship.'

He brought my heart into my mouth, and nearly tears into my eyes, by arriving at the cinema exactly as the film was about to begin. It seems Louise rang up. Well, I do know, but it was horrid to wait 25 mins all the same. Film 'Local Hero' even lovelier the second time. He thought it a little slow, but took it back after, saying he was in a rush. I think it's a film whose rare gentleness and richness you appreciate more as you get older, not because youth can't see the qualities - in his generosity, K. can't yet see how rare those qualities are.

In the tube, he told me he'd broken the window of the music room moving the piano. He'd braced his back against it, the pane gave way and he only stopped himself from falling out by grabbing the window-frame. As he told me, I grabbed his arm - I couldn't help it. It sent spears thro' me. Do you know, I don't think I would survive his death. I really don't.

He also told me it's very heavy going with Lionel B. 'I have to drag it out of him.' I can imagine. Drink and drugs and inertia. Will K. succeed when so many others, I imagine, have failed? He called round here with him last night. Well. Another time.

Lovely evening. I went and got some drink - I'm so grateful he can still take from me. To bed a bit earlier, which was good for me - and him. Well, he's in the middle of a serious affair and a lot of work. It seems Simon Lee, his ex-lover, has some sort of film project for him, variations on a series of chords - I don't follow quite, but it seems it may be a lot of money. He didn't mention Linn at all till very late on, to say that it was betting better and better. Poor little thing, he isn't in love with her yet, but this time I think it may come over him later on, - he's still very conscious of it all. I must be ready for him being really overthrown and worried when it happens.

In the morning he was a bit tetchy with me for not sitting down quietly! Ah. Well, my intense consciousness of him makes it difficult, but this very day I did get better, and really read the paper and really gave up worrying about boring him. I went off to the supermarket and stocked him up while he was still asleep. I am concerned that he may economise on food and just smoke joints instead as he has so many free cannabis plants. Do they suppress appetite? I expect they do.

I stayed for lunch which he cooked, and forced myself to go at 3.0.

Monday June 26 1983

Arranged a nice day. To buy new videos and books at Selfridge's, picture-framers, bank, see K with right size plant pots, meet Simon, who thank god, rang up this morning, and see the play at the Bush. All went as planned except the Bush isn't open Monday. Bought the new Anthony Powell novel. Funny feeling. Haven't started it yet. Am still not used to the fact that D. will never see some of my favourite books. To the dear familiar picture-framers. And to K. in a collar and tie! All there was on the table, by the way, was a plate of tomato-soup, finished. He'd had James Hammerstein round, 'knocked out by my music, going to send me two or three scripts.' So that's four projects and not a penny in any of them. Said his car was illegal after next week. New license and the MOT would want at least £200 of repairs. Oh dear. Said he was tired.

Stayed about twenty mins or half-an-hour. 'What are you doing tonight?' he said. Linn was coming round late, about 11.0, as she only stayed for the evening last night. Says she wants to talk to me about her still live-in lover, who knocks her about. Poor people.

I offered to lend him the money for the car, but he said he didn't want to get into any more debt.

I could have stayed all night, but again tore myself away. I am so frightened of boring him, let alone grabbing at his affection.

But oh how grey I felt as I made myself leave him.

Now is the point I must be so careful. Our relationship is really solidly based, and must just go on, with no special peaks, for they are past. What I mean by that, is that he has committed himself to me as a friend more deeply than I could ever have expected, by the money, the flat, the keys, but more than anything, the confidences, the confidence, the affection, the dependence; now we go on with everyday life together, without any suggestion of me forcing repeat perfs. of intimacy. A loose rein is important. The great love I have for him, must always be for him, expressed for him, not for myself.

Tuesday June 28 1983

Philip Henslowe arrived about 4.30, fresh from lunch at Punch. In connection with some cartons for his house magazine. I waited during the two hours he was here for him to say anything at all important about Peter. The nearest he came was to say that he's going to stay at school till Easter at least. And that the next time he and Philip comes to London, he'll bring the boy with him and leave him with me for the day. I expect that's a sort of try-out for asking me to have him to stay. I shall be interested to see if he comes out to me at all. One can't expect much from a 15 yr old. For what it's worth, I think he's probably an artist. (Of course, he may be no good, but that's another matter.) I'm afraid I find Philip a bit of a nit. Nice but a bit lacking common-sense. I will let the boy stay if I see anything in him. And if he were in any other line, of course I wouldn't think of it.

Forgot to record that on Sunday, I asked K. when Linn's b'day was. He didn't know! No, he's not really in love yet, - he can still talk a whole evening and not mention her! But he knows her eyes are 'a wonderful blue'. And he knows that mine are hazel with a blue rim.!

Wednesday June 29 1983

The bell rang about 10.30. It was Roy, with the Nicholson papers etc, just as I was about to strike him off my list of friends. He stayed to lunch, we had a jolly talk, but he is so reticent about Liz, that it is inhibiting. I can't feel someone is a real friend if they keep their feelings as hidden as that. I daresay he doesn't come out to anyone, but still....

Had to ring K. anyway, but did so while R. was there, as I know K. has been a bit hurt that R. hasn't been in touch or sent a message for his move or seen the flat. K. told me his time with Lionel has been 'wonderful' 'We've written three songs.' 'Angus, we went off to see Laurie Johnson - what a sweet man - a wonderful house, up a long drive. And he was so nice. We were picking up Lionel's typewriter. Another man's come in to write the script.' So it looks as if it's taking off, thank god.

And yet, and yet, I am so ashamed of the shafts of childish jealousy which go through me at times like this. If I really want his good and his good only, how could I contemplate being the only influence in his life - and him a musician? Part of it is, of course, the simple primitive fear of losing him physically - going to live in Los Angeles for instance. He thinks he'd keep in touch, but I fear not - but it is despicable to want to keep things as they are. Even if I could. I will conquer it. I will. I find I made a note, to comfort myself, 'Remember when he tells you of a vivid time and you feel jealous, think of all the times he must have told others of our times and our talks.'

I cannot understand why I need ever feel insecure about him after that Saturday.

'My best friend'.

You see, the worm is in me. He simply says what a good day he's had. The vulgarity of wanting to be with him every minute. That is a betrayal of the extraordinarily generous friendship he offers me.

And that's an ungenerous thought. Comfort in someone else's jealousy!

Richard Huy to dinner solus. There is something relaxing and soothing to me in his artlessness. We played some tapes and had a good lightweight evening. A relief to my torn emotions.

Saturday July 2 1983

Thursday and Friday were spent in useless attempts at work, useless despair at no work, useless. Saturday, well, at least I might see K. His mother rang, and among other things, said that Nigel and a friend were staying with him. So I thought I'd ring him. A thousand things were happening, so could he ring back? Because he'd got 'something very important' to talk to me about. I went to the shops, and came back and sat by the telephone. He told me he'd gone out with Lionel to some friends in Kilburn - the man sounds to me as if he makes hard-core porn, well, he does, and has a video shop and K. passed out during dinner, for fifteen minutes! Of course there'd been drugs, black Nepalese, which is I suppose a specially good powerful cannabis. But Lionel afterward mentioned epilepsy, which worried me much. I questioned K. closely, but couldn't of course get any clear picture. He described how marvelous he felt after, in the garden, how he felt such love for the whole world. But suddenly I was overwhelmed by love and concern for him. 'I must see you'. He said he'd rather be alone to work it out, he thought. But then said come round, I did and stayed for six hours, talking non-stop. I can't now disentangle what we said on the phone from what we said to one another.

It seems that the moment he got there he knew something was 'going to happen.' That is to say, that there are houses you can get drunk in, and ones where you can't. He says he's been resisting a real trip and that night he didn't. He felt it, his head getting bigger and said 'I'm going to let this happen'. He came to on the kitchen floor with wet towels and all sorts. He sat in the garden for a bit, and had a cigarette, and his host said, 'I've run a basin of cold water, put your head in that, it'll put a bit of colour in your cheeks.' He said, 'I looked at myself in the glass, and put my head in the water, and only just remembered to lift out. I could have committed suicide.' He almost seemed to have wanted to. Difficult by that method. After more talk, I decided it certainly wasn't epilepsy. (Silly Lionel B.) I said 'How was it when you were out? Have you anything you remember? He thought in silence for a long time, and said 'It'll have to be in music - I couldn't put it in words.'

My impression of his host is not favourable. But then I am jealous of them for sharing such an intense moment in his life. Not that, I suppose, he told them a thing about it. (I must register, by the way, that I am beginning to see that at times he likes to make things more mysterious, less clear. Me, the other way round.!)

He also talked at length of his fears and feelings about computers. (Nigel's friend said, 'I want to work for the computers.') and nuclear war. I am glad to say that, about the last, I got a better picture. One of the struggles he's having is against the fatalism of all his other friends. It's odd about the computers that he almost seems to want to believe they'll take over, just as he wants to believe in magic and hypnotism and other abrogations of rationality.

I think I got it straight that it wasn't epilepsy. Thank God. The whole experience, I think, is a symptom of everything else that's happening to him. He's in such a hyperaesthetised state from all these other causes. For instance, he had a snort of cocaine on Wednesday with Kevin Gould. He'd do anything. He also talked about Lin. He had a row with her on Tues. She was upset after visiting her father. He said he'd ring to comfort her, and forgot because he was out with Lionel. This despite the fact that he wrote her a letter last week proclaiming what he called, twice, his undying love. Oh dear, he doesn't know yet. But oh how he's changing and growing every day, every hour. They've made it up and he went round to her house! Discussed knocking a wall down, and how he'd like it, and then came back to his place for the night although it was late. I quite see, she couldn't make love to him there while Robert still lives there.

It is difficult to describe the opening of his heart and spirit that is taking place. For instance, he spoke of my will, and how he must look at all my pictures and things so as to know what to do with them, and with tears in his eyes, that he hated to talk about it. I can only take so many mentions of yr death. I've got 30 years, haven't I? But about all his really inner feelings, 'it's you and Lin and that's about it.'

He also said, in what context I can't now remember, that I was 'incredibly handsome.'! 'You know everything, don't you?' With that indescribable softness and tenderness that turns me over.

I hope it isn't all due to drugs! He said he was still affected by it and was smoking the five joints he did to come down slowly.

Sunday July 2 1983

Off to Ron Berglas' party in a minute, oh god.

Simon rang this morn. I gave him a short account of K. He warned me very very seriously about Lionel B. 'One of the few really evil people I've heard of.' Told me of the pop-singer, Bobby Shaftoe. L.B. put mescalin in his drink at their first meeting at 16, and he lived with L.B. for a year and a half, being stuffed with drugs for his appearances, and feels his brain and himself has never been the same since. And that's fifteen years ago.

Which of course may be an argument in Lionel B's favour.

Later.

About six yesterday, the two youngsters came back. I'd said to K., knowing neither of them had been to London before, 'Where have they gone?' He said, with a very funny inflection, 'Trafalgar Square'. Later, they went to more esoteric areas, reaching as far into unknown London as Leicester Sq. and Piccadilly Circus. He also laid me low by describing the friend, 14, being rung up by his sister, who lives in London; he put the 'phone down and said, 'Where's the nearest 'phone-box?' His mother had said he must ring her, but he wasn't to do it on K's 'phone. No amount of K saying 'But this is me, saying you can use my 'phone, made any difference. Off up the road they went - 'it cost 60p'. Hilarious.

Also forgot to say he got lost going to Linn's because of my old A-Z which hasn't got some of the new motorways in. He was 40 mins late. I said he'd better have a new one. 'No', he said, in a laughing tearful voice, 'I like this one because it's yours.' Well.

I must return for a moment to the changes in him. He said he feels almost every day how different he is from the day before, and how ashamed he feels of what he was like. He said he was sorry he hadn't been more unselfish, and shared the experience of moving into the flat more and better with me. Well, there was one day when he didn't seem to care whether I was there or not. But otherwise he shared it miraculously, I thought. And our friendship survived! - was much deepened and extended by it. His whole nature is parting and shifting and letting in light that changes his relation to himself and to other people. That generous loving nature.

He arrived early about twenty to seven. Lovely, but said he had to go early, at 9.30, to get back to record Nigel and George's views on computers, and their future generally! In the end, he didn't go till 10.30 so all was lovely, and we dined in the garden. Grilled chops, new peas, strawberries.

I first told him Simon's tale of Lionel. It much depressed, of course, from every point of view. The most important reaction to me, was, 'if it turns out that the experience was due to a drug that was stronger than I thought or just to the drug and not to me giving myself up to a trip at last, then, to feel again the wonderful indescribable things I felt, I'll have to take a drug again and that's just what I don't want.'

I know exactly what he means. After all, you sometimes have a love for the whole world after a drink or two, sometimes without a drink at all. So it isn't simply a mental illusion implanted from the drink, just let loose by the drink. I was pleased that his worry was exactly my own. He got it straight in the end and recovered his spirits.

While I was serving the strawberries, he was saying about sharing the moving into the flat with me. That led him to say, 'Why do you put up with me?' This jiggling wriggling little mess of a wormy musician.' I tried to tell him that his mind and heart and spirit were marvelous to me, a perpetual new delight, to lead them forward and see them grow, and be taught and encouraged and surprised and touched by. He said, when I asked the same question back, 'You stimulate my mind like noone else.' Things got to such a pitch that I was able to say about 'best friend'. 'Do you think I didn't know what I was saying?'

Oh the final deep peace that settled over my poor old tortured heart!

Monday July 4 1983

Forgot to record that on the day we went to Local Hero, after the window-breaking story in the tube, he also told me a new bit of his past. He was in a different mood that weekend, as he is sometimes, a bit withdrawn, harsher, a little cynical, less warm. (All relative.) He said he could give everything up, all his friends, and go off and be completely alone with his dreams. 'I could', he said, and, catching a certainly unspoken and I thought completely unexpressed pang from me, 'Don't worry, I'm not going to, but I could.' He then described going off with fourteen other Venture Scouts when he was fourteen or fifteen. He was always getting into trouble for wandering off by himself. 'I could spend eight hours just looking at the sea' - they were on the Isle of Mull, by the way. One day he swam across some channel and back, a mile. When he came out, he collapsed with hypothermia. They wrapped him up, and each one took turns to sleep with him to warm him up.

Tuesday July 5 1983

I lead a useless empty life; except for my friends, I would give in completely. I seem to have lost all resolution. Rang K. about 6.0. He was in bed! He's been up all night writing a song with Ian Burns! Sounded low, but perhaps just tired.

Rang Linn to arrange lunch, and told him what she said. Among other things, 'I think I'm more trouble and difficulty to him than pleasure.'

Also, 'There's a lot to learn', about him - indeed. But at least she sees that. The talk went on longer than I meant, because I was enjoying it. Ah me, I wonder how many girl-friends I'll have to get to know and help before the one.

She was amazed that he could be thoughtless. Used to be, I mean.

When he was with me on Sunday, he laid the table after taking it into the garden. And said after, 'I'm glad you don't wash up after dinner. I'm glad it's a rule. I rather enjoy washing up the next morning.' He keeps mentioning things he's seen me do a hundred times, but he's only seen them now, as so much.

Oh, my whole heart is filled with such love for him, that I want to rush and 'phone him. But I won't, I won't. I must leave it loose. He's so good.

Wednesday July 6 1983

A unexpectedly lovely day. It is very hot by the way, but that's not what I mean. Terrific thunderstorms in the afternoon. S. rang up to say he was stuck at Earls Court, so we met at the theatre. The Ionesco, 2 hrs without interval. Old-fashioned tedious avant-garde, except for Sheila Burrell, indifferently and in two cases abominably acted. Stephen Lewis has such fearful Joan Littlewood timing and Julia Black like the silliest sort of G. and S .amateur. We crept out after about an hour. S. said, as we ran for a taxi, 'I think our exit was the best bit of the show. Nothing became it like our leaving it.' I said as we got in, 'Take it for all in all, I hope we shan't look upon its like again'. Back here, everything was perfect, the evening air on the balcony, salmon-trout and strawberries, the best company in the world. And suddenly during the coffee at about 11 the 'phone rang. Pip-pip-pip. 'Angus, Phil and I are at Battersea. Can I come round for the key?' He'd taken out Nigel’s, which don't open the chubb. Oh what joy. Round they came, and Phil is the friend I like best. Mild, quiet, sensible, made up his mind about things. K utterly adorable; as always in such company. I suddenly see I see how proud he is of me. I'll go up after Lin today. Can't believe such happiness.

Thursday July 7 1983

Another almost entirely heavenly day. Met Lin for lunch at Cafe du Jardin. She is very pretty, very slim, lovely skin, huge blue eyes. Said, 'You choose the food.' Brill in a green sauce.

Yes, thank god, she is a girl with something to her. She described her life. Her father is dying of leukemia, sounds to me as if it won't be long now. She goes over there every weekend, and one, sometimes two nights, in the week. Her mother is suffering from the strain. Last weekend she (Lin) nailed a new roof on the woodshed for instance. 'No, I don't find it difficult, unless I think about it. If I think about it, I do, otherwise, I enjoy their company.' As for Robert Hawthorn, her parents like him and obviously partly depend on his company, too. They would be very upset if she split with him, and of course she's loath to upset them further. 'And, you see, when he's violent and difficult, it's easy but when he's nice as he has been for the last fortnight, I feel sorry for him.' The last fortnight he's sensed a change in her, I expect. Just as I expected, she supports him completely, too. So what is to be done? Obviously he must go, because it is dishonest for him to stay. She must get her mind straight on each bit of the problem, explain to her parents who after all love her more than Robert, in the end. When she has got her mind straight, then she must quietly slowly bend R. to her will.

It was lovely of course, taking about K. She loves him, oh dear, she sees difficulties of all sorts, but she loves him. She's thrilled me by telling me he was always talking about me. I don't need that sort of reassurance any more, but it was very good to hear it all the same. She said he had such charisma, such maturity in some ways. True. Needed affection. Well, don't we all? But I know what she means. She is humble, tries to be and do good. She has been put upon, and that must be stopped.

Walked to Light Fantastic gallery with her to pick up K's hologram light. Left her at the tube with a really close sweet hug. Forgot to say we had a little weep over D. I said I was often very lonely, and K. had helped that so much, both by actually being there, and by coming to be so fond of me. She said if they got together I needn't ever be lonely.

I rushed straight off to K. He was on the stairs with his arms open. We also hugged. Phil still there with his bass-guitar. (And I've thought all this time it was a double-bass.) K said 'You imagine you'll give up drugs later on'. 'Oh yes', said Phil, 'I'm sure I will.' Told all, tho' would have preferred to be alone. Not that Phil isn't sweet, but I don't know him well yet and felt I had to watch what I said. Bit inhibiting. However, all went well. At one point K. said laughingly he could imagine giving up music for her. No, he'd hate her in the end if he did. Lin was arriving at 6.30ish. I went and got some more drink. Looked out of the window for Lin, a shirtless bike- rider called 'Angus', it was the egregious David Kitchen. Hum! It's no use, he makes me uneasy because he's false. I also think his ideas and attitudes bother K. Uselessly, K. has still to say at once this person is phoney. Vide Louise.

Linn arrived and was adorable to me. The hologram looked splendid. I had a gin and tonic. It was 7.30ish. Phil showed no sign of driving back to Liverpool. David K. of course showed no sign of leaving, and I wouldn't be surprised to find that he stayed to dinner! K. and Linn were longing to be alone. So I went. K. came down to the door with me, and came quietly into my arms. He said, 'Thanks for the lamp. Thanks for everything.'

Tonight, after dinner, the 'phone rang. Neil 'Come and witness our wills'. In my shorts, shirt open, him in a robe, top of the car open, we swept to his house. Sat in the garden drinking till one.

Friday July 8 1983

To Neil and Lynda's for lunch and to do the garden. For which, by the way, Nigel-the-man- upstairs gave me a bottle of whisky last night! Lynda is huge, and v. heavy poor girl. She sat in the heat holding her enormous stomach. She is a lovely girl, and all I hope is that her serenity and strength are real and deep. Because they'll need to be. Though I must say Neil at the moment seems to have been more settled by the job than unsettled. But there is a long way to go. Had a most pleasant day, weeding and mowing. Lovely quiche for lunch. Lots of cold white wine - it's very hot.

Saturday July 9 1983

Quarrelled with K. I am in agony. Went off after the call, to the pubs, riverside, climbed a fence tore my shorts half off which sobered me and depressed me, further. How could I, he's more or less all I have.

Sunday July 10 1983

We've more than made it up, so I can write calmly.

He rang to say he was coming round tonight. Not Sat. 'because I'm doing a job for David Kitchen, some driving.' Also 'I have a new neighbour, who complained about the doors in her hall, - I sent Lionel down to talk to her!

I was drunk, I was already in a rage at no work, especially on a Sat. with all the theatres full. And it all flicked me, quite wrongly, on the raw. Especially D.K. whom I despise. But I was quite wrong. He was very good, as he always is. I was quite wrong to be angry. All the same, I hate him working for D.K., tho' it turns out it's only once! and he was a fool to send Lionel down. 'The woman's a cow'. Maybe, but he must manage her.

Sunbathed all day as yesterday. He arrived just after seven, smiling as usual. I hugged him hard and apologised and said 'Can we have the conversation again?' 'Of course'. So we did. He said he told David K. I didn't think he should take casual work, well, as I staggered white-faced from the telephone, I had to say something! It's certainly true that it's nice making up after a quarrel! He talked a lot about Lin. He is a little browned off already. She wouldn't tell him anything about our lunch. Why? Perhaps she thought I said nothing useful. I wonder if she'll try to get me out of his life. He's still worried, as he well might be, whether she's a professional mess, whether she's taken him on on purpose to make her life more difficult and complicated. If she is, her attitude to me will reveal it. If she really wants to clear up the mess, she will turn to me. 'I was hoping you'd be able to tell me that', he said. I can't as yet.

Also said, 'When I use things you've told me in arguments with my friends, they're amazed.' On the balcony after dinner, we philosophized (sic) for a bit, about the existence of God and cognate matters. I love leading him forward. Escalopes and raspberries in the garden. 'Some Like it Hot' on the video - tho' I only meant snatches - he went on watching. I still can't believe it, that he's still there and is so fond of me.

We are, it seems, off to B'mouth on Thur. I'll keep my fingers crossed.

Monday July 11 1983

Still very very hot. Just wandered round in my jock-strap, and without, all day, and for once was glad not to be working.

He rang at lunchtime to say thank-you! Ever more browned off, as she is going out tonight with Robert's manager and, presumably, Robert. 'As he so rightly said, 'It gives it a further lease of life going out with someone like that to keep R. in countenance. Also I don't simply want to become the other one she can get rid of her guilt with.'

Perceptive.

She went on to him the other night about the age difference. I would just have a slap-up affair and see what happens! Wear out the first fucking thrills and then see.

Tuesday July 14 1983

91 degrees. Did nothing.

Wednesday July 13 1983

To first preview of Simon's prod. of Snoo Wilson's 'Reno' play. Curious flat in and out affair. S. is sanguine that it needs re-adjustment. I must admit it has the merit of having more nearly left me undecided as to whether there was anything there or not. K. and Linn came, too, their night together. K. thought nothing much of it. I was so pleased he knew to say 'XX' at the interval. I fear S. Wilson is only perverse, not really gifted.

K. and Linn I sent off immediately after, as it was ten. S. went off somewhere. I home. Meeting K. at ten in the morning. After a night of love?.

Monday July 18 1983

I could not have written before. I have been taken out into uncharted seas, - and bewilderingly charted seas as well.

So. We met at Knightsbridge Tube, Sloane St. ent. He'd organised the hire of the car from a firm in Pavilion Rd. He was early! But, sitting gloomily on the steps, he said, 'I've forgotten my driver's license.'!! Off he went back to Holloway. (I was amazed he was early as they can't have got back to the flat before 10.30, eaten? and made love three times as he afterwards told me. So up at least 8.30. Youth.)

The car firm were amused at 'my son'. Oh. I should have contradicted them, but I couldn't. Neat very new little car, perfect for the purpose. Off we went, as 11.15. Stopped in Putney High St. for him to eat a ham-roll, and drink a coke. He really needed it, with the night behind and day ahead. At Lyndhurst, just after he'd removed his track trousers and t-shirt while driving at 70 down the motorway, he got out, though we were already half an hour late for Lalla, to look at some new foals in a field. And the tall slim wedge-shaped creature came back to the car, dancing up and down on the thistles, picking the thorns out of his feet.

We did the shopping at S'bourne. I sent him to the butchers saying 'A shoulder of lamb and half a pound of smoked back bacon.' I said it twice, thinking it would be easy. I'd been in Lalla's maddening green-grocer a minute, and 'Did you say half a shoulder - a whole shoulder's £4.35, and what sort of bacon?' At moments like that, I really feel as if he is mine. I don't quite know why - I thrill to those moments.

We got there. They met. We had lunch. Smoked trout I'd brought with me. We went to the beach. He swam, doing that racing dive I've envied so often. But how pale he looked on the beach. Odd seeing him from a distance among the others. I went into the sea, too. Up to my chest. I think he thought I was more frightened of the water altogether than I actually am. He said that tomorrow I could try floating. We came back and had dinner. He and Lalla talked a lot. After dinner he and I went in the car to Hengistbury Head, getting caught in a ghastly bungaloid maze on the way. By night, alone, one can pretend that H.H. is still the lush butterfly, snake, lizard and toad jungle head-high with bracken that it used to be. We climbed in the dark to the top and lay on the heather for a long while, looking at the few stars thro' the heat haze. I can't remember what we talked about. I was simply gasping at a fantasy come true, and therefore disgustingly, self-conscious. So that was his first exhausting day. Oh and a drink with Edith before dinner. He kissed her on meeting. (He simply knocked everyone flat.)

No, that's not fair on myself. There were moments lying on the heather, when I nearly dozed off in relaxation and the peace of being with him.

Woke him at 10.30. My b'day. L. gave me usual booktoken. K. came and gave me quite a parcel. Turned out to be a photo-frame, like a small brass easel. Upright, with two cross pieces on two played feel, all in slim brass bars. Modern, yet goes with my things. 'I thought it would do for Dorothy's passport photographs.' He hasn't seen those for a year. They're in, and they're perfect, and so is it.

So off we went to Edna.

What a shock. I scarcely know her. Shrunken, twisted, so thin that her head looks twice the size, and her teeth are huge. However, she is still herself, and she completely overwhelmed Kevin. Though she has so little news now. They charmed each other, and I sat in the middle and thought of the years between us all. King's Head dining-room empty except for one other party. Took her home, and off to the beach.' Boiling. He dashed in and out of the water. We built a sand-castle. The sea came in. I went in the sea. He made me float. I floated. It worked. He held me, and was calm and mild and didn't react when I wildly struggled to stand up. I floated nearly without him. 'That's enough', he said. The authority, total confidence. Dinner, rice-dish. After a game of scrabble - to think that I should live to play scrabble with K. - and how sweetly he joined in and laughed helplessly and pleased Lalla. After we went for a walk along the beach, paddling in the warm water. And suddenly were in the middle of an agonising disagreement? quarrel? argument? (I should say I wasn't drunk, but I may have been. He'd been smoking a joint, or two - at Lalla's!! during the evening, but I don't think it was that.) But I don't know for once what it was. Except that I first took offence at him saying he didn't think I was interested in anything. A little before that, he'd started questioning me in a broad Liverpool accent like an interview on television, and expected me to reply in kind. Of course I can't play any sort of game, like that. But I don't know that it was that. He also said that being together so long was a great test of our friendship. He kept, after I was agonised, resuming the conversation as if nothing had happened. Said I was too easily offended. True. Later still said 'You said not too far too fast. Don't grab.'

Which didn't agonise me oddly enough. 'Cos I'd anticipated it, hadn't I? I must move now into uncharted areas of friendship with this extraordinary boy. I don't have to pitch the talk to get through to him. I'm through, and must not repeat myself emotionally and sentimentally.

After all, I myself started the next day as if nothing had happened, and we have not discussed it since. Saturday was all on the beach. He went down at eleven. Lalla and I had proper lunch and followed down with some food. I nearly missed him. Both of them said what an incredibly distinctive walk I'd got. We built another sand-castle, with Lalla watching, just as she'd watched fifty years ago. I was determined not to go in the water till she'd gone, tho' she was waiting for an odd band of seaweed to come in. She left at 5.30. I went it, - it's waist high and very warm. I floated twice without his arm. At last, he went away to the beach and made me get up and float by myself. I did. I said 'Nobody else on the earth could have made me do that.'

When we got up in the evening, he was aflame. Never really been tanned before. Odd, as he's such a good swimmer. Not too bad, but of course he thought it was. And it is painful. If only he knew how much worse it could have been.

Despite the row, he'd said he'd stay till Sun-night, when on Sat. morn. I said 'Shall I book the car for a further two days?' So he played scrabble (again!) a XX in his underpants and bright red skin.

Sun. we stayed at home and he and Lalla had philosophical (sic) discussions which seemed to please them both, but bored me silly. Again he said 'Now, as the head of a big record company, can you tell me how you started?' Imagine me thinking of a word to reply.! Lalla said, 'Oh go on, try.'

I could have murdered both of them.

They both, in their different ways, kept on saying how unusual I was. Perhaps that's one reason why. Because I am incapable of playing useless charades.

I bet he got that from David K. I bet D.K. is super at that. Like James.! Like all bad actors. Oh dear.

So we drove back. I said L. made me less able to face life! He said 'I wish there was something I could say that would help.' Rang at 1.30am to say he'd left his tobacco tin in the car, with his pot in.! He got the tin, but the pot had gone. Told the girl not to touch it, because he'd been fishing and it was full of maggots.

1st rehearsal of Nicolson today. Magical for me. Inspiring.

Made me read all in a new way. I rang K. beforehand to say I'd got butterflies. He said good, wished me luck. I said I might ring him after, 'I'm going to need that, I'm going to have to rely on you quite a bit.' 'You do that', he said.

And he rang me at about 9.0.

Now the quarrel. You see it's gone from my mind. Although we didn't - and may never - resolve it, it doesn't matter. There is enough of our friendship now to ride over such things. How odd that I should live to say so. 'Don't grab' I hope only refers to me mulling over things to him too often, perhaps identifying and saying the stages of our friendship too clearly and too often. I hope. My only other fear it that he finds it cloying and boring.

But that's the same fear. And I'm quite sure he doesn't. As long as I don't talk to him like this.

But oh god, how wonderful and purging and miraculous to get over my fear of water with him at the place where the fear first took hold.

The way he went into the whole four days impressed me all over again with his generosity of spirit.

He could have been a quarter as warm and still passed muster with everyone.

The uncharted sea, as I said on our way back from the quarrel, is our friendship. Of a kind I've never had before. Someone I love so deeply, is so young, and yet so deeply responds to me. It's no use going on saying 'I don't believe it'. Otherwise I shall be asking him for sentimental assurances all the time - for myself.

I must start all over again, on this wonderful incredible base of real tender love on his part, and build on it. I must start all over fresh thinking of him and his good and his future, and his life. How lucky I am.

Summers were always long and hot. So they say, in the past. But it's not just in the long ago For there was such a summer, the last.

Along the beach in the milky dark We walked through the soft warm night The creamy surf was cool on our feet It was all so right, so right.

You told me a lot more about your life You talked of your lovers, too. You wanted to know about me as well So I told you, all true, all true.

Yet all at once I don't know how We quarreled And said harsh word In silence we walked The night all spoilt And that seemed the end of things.

But the silence went on, and the anger passed And the night was still soft and warm We forgot that we'd fought, and the surf was still cool. You were safe from harm, from harm.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 48

July 25. '83 - Sept. 12. '83.

Monday July 25 1983

The gap entirely because of Lalla staying with me. That, combined with the heat and starting rehearsals for my one-man show. Enough, I think!

Well, now, the rehearsals, more discussions of the script and structure, went well as far as they went. Every day they got shorter, 'it is draining', - well, it wasn't to me. I was dismayed to find he'd read so little of the material, but we did decide some things tho' much is yet to be decided, let alone done. I don't yet see my way remotely thro' it. He did get me to do the bits I performed, far more freshly. Good. But I was stunned at how quickly he tired!

Nothing else this week really, except Lalla and rehearsals till Friday, when I took Fiona Gilmore out. We went to September, which I still like. Very good company, and many like assumptions about class etc. Fascinated that she is troubled by exactly the same things in David, as I was. Fucking him doesn't help, obviously! I think she might be a chum.

Saturday, Donald Ann and Hannah came to tea. H. is a nice little girl, who talks fairly rationally, and isn't too tiresome. But my house isn't geared to children. 'Fragile objects on low tables' are a poor idea for them. Short talk alone with Ann. She's joined C.N.D. Oh dear.

Yesterday we were going to K's for lunch. He rang on Sat. to say 'Bad news, I haven't got a joint.' He'd been so busy, of which more later, that he hadn't got to the shops till too late. Happily I had some cold beef, and took the vegetables and strawberries and all was well. Sun. morning, tho', he rang o say 'Come half an hour later, this place is a tip. We arrived, he was standing in the middle of a lot of hoover marks. Looked a bit tired, I thought. Lots of new work, but still no money, except the £300 from Southampton. Has met some rich record producer, 'his flat has a steel door', and is going to arrange and, I think, eventually play a single. 'It won't be out till Christmas, they're buying £4000 of equipment just like that.' There's a guitarist, and a drummer whose father is rich too. It's in his house they're going to put up this equipment. He's 'into' jazz-rock, and will have to be persuaded to prostitute his art to play the Duran-Duran type no. that it is. I notice that K. is now ready to prostitute his art to get a foot in.

Thank God he's decided to ditch Lionel, - by degrees. I saw Lionel's typewriter on the floor - thus witnessing to L.B's inability to work at home! He turned up for their first session since B'mouth with a friend who didn't leave! I am relieved.

We got on to nuclear war again. He has turned against my advice to mind the person next him and do the best in his work he can. He seems to be substituting for that, the attempt to persuade those who don't believe the world will destroy itself, to believe that it will. At least that's what he seemed to do with L. and me. Hardly positive thinking. I must get him to talk to me next time, only entirely rationally. He's poised at the moment between two bad points, - in danger of accusing me of being alternately stupid and dishonest.

We left about five, Lalla completely charmed with him and the flat. He rang up twice during the evening, which I was pleased about, because it shows Lalla that he rang me. First to read a letter to his bank-manager, about his overdraft. Second to tell me that Phil Lawrence's mother had suddenly died, to read out his letter, and ask me to write one.

Forgot to record that he was filling in his supplementary benefit form at B'mouth - with all these projects no money - asked me one question about it and then said, without looking up, 'Stay till I've finished it.' The casual off-hand trust at moments like that are indeed son-father, - they certainly make me feel it without any emotion, really practically.

Interesting article in Spectator the other week, calling the Sixties the time of the Cloud of Unreason, recommending 'such older men, brought up before the Cloud of Unreason, obscured Christianity, are the ones a distraught young man should turn to.' That's part of K and me, certainly.

He's seeing Lin tonight. She rang up while we were there to say that Robert had turned her out of the house after hitting her again. When she got back the next day, he'd gone. 'Has he taken his guitars?' K. said. No, he hadn't. I said she'd put his things out and change the locks. He said 'Can I say you suggested that?' I'm glad to say he doesn't feel ready to say 'Come into my arms, I will defend you against the world.' He'll do it as a friend, as I would. Good.

Wednesday July 27 1983

Simon took me to lunch for my birthday at Derry and Toms Roof Garden. I was last there on the first night afternoon of 'Salad Days'.! It's still really odd to go up in a lift, and find oneself in the shade of really quite big trees. We had such jolly warming chats. If only I could feel the straightforward warmth I feel for S., for K., too. Of course I do really, but I also still have to keep fighting the crippling desolating jealousy and possessiveness, and simply him not being there.

Rang him from Simon's on Simon's new telephone, just a hand-set you can walk round with it. David K. has put a tape in for a jingle in his advert. firm. More jealousy. How I can. But at least he's all right.

In the evening to John N. for a last visit to the old flat. Oh, I've felt a lot there. Sweet peaceful evening.

Friday July 29 1983

Still terribly hot. It seems the hottest July for 300 years. I can do little and am dreading having to start work on the prog. next week. Also dreading Neil. Simon away, John preoccupied, Philip moving, K. v. busy.

Rang David Monico at 10.0 to ask him to lunch. He asked me to lunch. Nice. I went. Small but charming terraced house in Shepherd's Bush near Amanda. Had lamb chops en papillote, with melon as first course, and rasps. as second. Undemanding conversation, just what I need. Stayed till 3.30, as he was waiting for a 'phone call from Farnham to see if they wanted him to play Hadrian VII or not, and he needed to be distracted.

In the evening no, before that, on the way home, the sun was as hot as I've ever felt it. I called at Amanda B's. After a long time a little black man pushed aside the curtain over the front door and said no one of that name lived there. He was in overalls and may have been working there and was certainly lacking in savoir faire. But it was a bit puzzling and I hope he didn't go back inside to go on raping and pillaging.

In the evening to Crispin Redman's, in Joyce R's basement flat in Gledhow Gardens. Very dark, and all the furniture and its arrangement curiously out of proportion. But they were very welcoming and sweet after my mistake last week. Sarah Walley (that's her name) is a special girl. I can see her standing in the wings, and I know I would feel utterly confident that the show would be run properly. Odd meal, a shoulder of lamb decidedly under cooked - I had to carve - and rice pudding! How strange people are about joints.! But it was a sweet evening, only slightly marred by James Wylie? coming in. He's bunking down there. He's the one we thought good in The Pyjama Game', at RADA. Decidedly full of himself and argumentative. Couldn't tell when I was being funny or serious. Memo: avoid.

Saturday July 30 1983

Now I must just chart another disgraceful little episode. Of course I'd bought food in case he wanted to come round. He had warned me he was going to go right into this single he's doing. It's apparently the theme-song for a film called Badman? Privately I think it all sounds sleazy and awful. The men concerned may be - well the video director Kevin seemed to have heard of, but the rest of it sounds a bit half-world to me. However - K. is producing the record, so has to cost and order everything. At the moment no expenses, no car and on supple. benefit! He had warned me he would be busy, so I'd made up my mind that I'd let him ring me if he wanted to. Of course I didn't. He said he wasn't going to do anything except get the work right. I'd rung to tell him Fiona G. wanted us to go to a barbecue at very short notice. He thought and then said he'd give it a miss. Read out his schedule and I do see. Every day till the 18 and 19, solid.

To describe the tortuous way it takes me, - I'd written on a piece of paper, very big, 'Can I not let him have one weekend to himself? Really. Without even indirect pressure.' I'd started to think he was just trying to break our meeting-at-weekends habit. I tried to stop myself ringing him, when Fiona's invitation was not only a perfect excuse, but an actual ordinary obligation to ring him. When I'd put the 'phone down, I then started to wonder how I could bear not to see him, how he would really be seeing people, who either dropped in or had to work with him, so why not me?

And so on and so on. The rest of Sat. and Sun. were a bit like the old days. I asked Prim and Mary to dinner to eat the food. A great success - with them. I was aching. Don't let anyone think I'm not ashamed and disgusted. The pain was real, but the cause wasn't. Imaginary jealousy? loneliness? should be fiercely resisted. I resisted it. After Prim and Mary went tonight, I refused to collapse in interesting despair.

I said, I say to myself, 'How dare you not trust him? for a start. And how can you be so vulgarly possessive? You are his best friend. Rest in than, and don't grab. As he said.

Don't grab.

Monday August 1 1983

Well, there you are. How dare you, indeed. K. rang at 1.15. I've forgotten to record that two 11-year-olds heard his music and said can we come up while doing a robot dance on the pavement. K. wants them to meet Peter Henslowe partly to get them off his back. Can I arrange?

So we talk. I say bravely, 'You don't mean I'm not going to see you for a month?' 'Well, not literally.' 'I'm suffering from withdrawal symptoms already.' 'Oh, that's sweet. Well, we'll keep in touch by telephone'. He read his schedule again and anything social is literally impossible. But my stupid feelings were rebuked by his simplicity and being so very much there. He thinks he's park of my life - why can't I?

To John N's new flat in the afternoon. Pleasant big crescent in Maida Vale. Huge oval gardens, quite private, only overlooked by the backs of his crescent and its twin, no passersby. Big flat, very light and sunny. Curious nothing decor. Ugly beige carpets. Fitted kitchen ugly and a bit worse for wear. Otherwise a terrific improvement on H.P. Enormous sitting-room, two bathrooms.

£84? £86? 000. Something like that. Absurd, really.

Tuesday August 2 1983

Rang Gilmores. David back from Australia, as bright as a bee, no jet-lag, it seems. All went well. His father's dying, however, which couldn't have come at a more awkward moment. Daisy doing £23-£24000, regularly, even thro' the heatwave. Good.

Rang K. and half-fixed possible day. Rang Henslowes and talked to Liz. Much more definite than Philip. We fixed a day, 24th, which I'm sure I wouldn't have done with P. A good talk. Rang K. again, and also had a good talk. Expenses, Patricia is inquiring about. Clothes and hair he's deciding on. I said Sat and Sun in the studio are going to be demanding days. Why didn't I do the shopping for him on Sat. and cook him a meal before I go. 'That would be really helpful'. You see? He just doesn't know how helpful and unobtrusive a real friend can be.

Wednesday August 3 1983

K. rang again in the morning - wants the bed as Phil Sterio is coming down. Good. Sent it. Rang to say it was coming. 'Are you all right?' He was. He rang to say it had arrived. 'You paid for it. That was very sweet of you.' I was working and said so. 'Is there anything else you want to say to me?' 'No', and we rang off screaming with idiotic laughter.

To the Gate cinema and dinner with Julian. As May is away I thought we'd go out and get it over with. A flash or two of his old self. Questioned me about Kevin. Is he very confident about his music? Sensibly so. Ah but he's never had his confidence disturbed. What'll he be like when he's had (a gesture) that needling undermining - deliberately destructive criticism?

Implication. He will then be quite justified in collapsing completely as I've done.

As Studio witnessed, K. has enough strength. I am more interested in waiting for the day when K himself starts to have doubts about his music, has more difficulty with it. I think he'll leap ahead after he's coped with that.

'How I love that boy' as Harold N. said of Nigel. But it's true, - I have to admit, it's the central fact of my life now.

Thursday August 4 1983

To the Suor Wilson play with Philip D. and Crispin R. It is certainly better, pulled together, tighter, the audience knows to laugh, and the production and the cast could scarcely be improved. And yet, there are passages of the play absolutely without any distinction. Eileen Atkins and Jean Marsh left at the interval - a pity and I don't think I would. There is enough wit in the first half to make me come back expecting more in the second. But still, it's a very unconcentrated affair.

Brought them back to supper. They got on all right. Crispin is coming out a bit, and looking more open. Told me that James Thing had been much disconcerted by me. Serves him right for being so argumentative. Cold chicken, lettuce, water-cress and cucu. salad, (all being good just now) strawberries, tiny little Royal Sov. hell to hull, but delicious, and bilberries. Rang Edna. She feels depressed. First time I've ever heard her say that.

Friday August 5 1983

Card from Julian thanking me for the other night, and saying it's 29 years since the first night of 'S.D.' on _Friday.

Can you beat it? He even gets it in on a postcard.

To John and Simon's with a bottle at 3.0. All chaos. 'Everyone in shorts only, some talent about. Stayed 30 secs. On to Savoy for tea with Kenneth B. Very welcoming. Went on to have a cocktail. He was dining with the sacked first director of his Australian 'Boy in Bush' film.

He obviously means to be a great friend. I find we talk as if we are. And oddly we are. Living together that time? The row never discussed? There we are. Full of plans. The Julien Mitchell St. Francis at Greenwich. 'Maud' as a one-man show. This minute to Belfast for 'Billy 3'. Buying a flat. Oh God.... It is very very odd, the way all these young men seem to need me. No, not seem, they do. Some time soon, I must examine the despair I feel so much now, quite unconnected with K. I suppose it's being out of work and alone so much. I must think.

To do K's shopping tomorrow I must get out of this fear I have of seeing him and going to the flat, a fear that has no real basis in experience any more, and comes from my knowledge of the extreme pain he can inflict on me. I don't mean that he does. Tho he has. But the extreme susceptibility I have to him, means the possibility of extreme pain is there. I wish I could root out that fear and just love him. With all my young acolytes, male and female, for Sally Anne, Amanda, Debbie, Elaine D., are acolytes, too, and disciples, I have such a fearless take it or leave it time.

He's in another class and time and place. If I have him for a friend, I don't need anyone else. If I haven't him for a friend, I don't care about anything else.

That sounds like a good line to finish a page with, but it's literally true. I sometimes surprise myself by how much I think of him and his life and career. As Daddy once said to me, 'I live in your life more than in my own.' I really do, quite literally, think of him last thing at night and first thing in the morning.

But, but, I must make myself less vulnerable to hurts and non-existent imaginary slights. That is what I mean by really thinking of him and his good.

Saturday August 6 1983

So I got up at 9.0, and did my shopping, and then his, four v. heavy shopping-bags. Bought a chicken, some chops, sausages, bacon etc. veg. etc. etc. etc.

Arrived at the flat, - one of the blinds won't go up, so there was a dim look about the room, - he was on the floor playing tapes with two strange young men, Phil and Stu.! He was in his yellow robe, so I knew he'd got up this morning, tho' there was a great air of having been up all night. Not surprising, as they were up till four or five, and had just got up. He said 'Angus' in a tone of great surprise, and had plainly completely forgotten our arrangement. It turned out later that he scarcely knew what day it was. They were obviously rehearsing, and I felt bad. However, he said stay, so, as unobtrusively as I could I put the things away and tried to be as unobtrusively unobtrusive as possible.

I felt at once an atmosphere in the room. I thought at first - self - self - it was the two boys resenting a stranger. As time went on, before explanations, I realised it wasn't. Phil Sterio got up and came in and I had someone to talk to, while K and the two boys played a song called 'Too Late' again and again.

(For the first half-hour or so, despite the strain it turns out he's under, K. kept coming and sitting by me and saying chatty things, until in the end I had to say, sotto voce, 'Ignore me, it doesn't matter', but I was moved that he could find mind to remember me, let alone chat. Another indication perhaps of how touchy I've been in the past.)

About me I made myself some eggs and bacon. I said to one of the boys, 'I have to have lunch at lunch-time - I'm eccentric like that.' It turned out K and Phil hadn't eaten since two-thirty yesterday. I think they did have a MacDonalds last night. What a curse those takeaway places are. After he'd played the song a few times, he asked me to sing the hook, as the catchy bit is called. Of course I refused, not because it isn't catchy, but because I couldn't get my voice to do it, and felt self-conscious anyway. Lin managed it on the 'phone, so that pleased him. (He hasn't seen her since that Monday, incidentally - it's a bit rocky, they're meeting this Monday.) Phil gave me a few details. They've had a difficult time. Yesterday, out at Barnet, K. realised that the Duran Duran wouldn't do - was just a collection of little phrases, which would not come together. He walked round the garden with Bob Dicks, the man who is master-minding it (sic) for half-an-hour, and then came back in and according to Phil, 'came down really hard.' The number was written by the boy, Phil! and words, I think, by Gary the rich drummer. At this point, I discovered, to my amazement, that the key-board player, the drummer and the vocalist Stu, are about 18 or so, and amateurs! More of that at the end. So that's why there was an atmosphere. He went on rehearsing - I was riveted. The singer is really not competent, K. had to take him away to the piano and go thro' the song for twenty mins or so, I was alone with the keyboard-player, who was fiddling about on the synthesizer, with the tape they'd made at Barnet yesterday, - just the accompaniment, no vocal. He'd seemed a bit suspicious of me 'Who is that?' and I don't blame him, but he played and chatted and asked my opinion of the bits.

I told K. after, I thought them too busy for the opening of the song. Earlier I'd made another suggestion, which to my delight, K. took at once. Second phrase, 'It's much, much, much too late' on a descending phrase, take out the third much.' The phrase after that was muddy and nothingy. He agreed when we were alone about that too. I was glad I could tell, after all. On and on went the repetitions of the song, - 'I reckon I listen to a song about 15000 times when I'm working on it' - I think he meant 1500 times, but still... About 3.45, Phil and Stu decided to go somewhere and fetch something, so I was able to serve the chicken and so on, all cooked by now, to Phil Sterio and K. K was very nervous, I could tell still he ate quite a lot of chicken, sausage and potatoes, left most of the beans, ate some raspberries. I was satisfied. The 'phone rang. It was Gary, the rich young drummer. K's end of the talk, 'How many songs have you written? None. Well, I could have written 15 and played one and said 'You don't like this one'. Right, here's another.' Phil had done nothing. Do you expect me to throw my chance of making a hit with this to please someone? Well, then.' And so on. Gary has obviously been surprised to find it isn't all just fun and friendly.

But we had a really, not jolly or cosy, but three-close-friends-against-a-difficult-world-meal. And a quiet chatty walk in the park, which helped K. calm down and slow down and change his tone of mind. Back at the flat he had a bath and washed his hair, and made ready to go off to the studio. The two boys came back and asked to stay the night 'seems silly to go back to Farnham' as indeed it would be, having to be at a studio in Sydenham at 9.0 or 10.0 tomorrow. So I couldn't clear and wash up as I wanted to, to save K. and had to give the two boys my keys. Which agonised me, but I cannot expect anyone on earth to understand that. Left K. and Phil to go off to studio. I got the tube, saying I would be just in time for my gin and tonic. 'But not your bath' said K. And I think I hid from him, as I hope I quite often do, how I always part from him painfully and unwillingly.

About the job. Let me register that however he arranges the song, it itself is no good, the singer is no good and it will not be a hit. He said himself the only person he feels sure of is Phil St. The sound of the whole set-up is sleazy and fourth-rate to me. If Bob Dicks has any reputation, (and K. I think, said he had) he's simply making use of K. to hold together a funny little affair to please a rich friend's son. Does K. really think this is how they get together a really important song for an important film? Here is poor K. arguing fruitlessly with a load of amateurs, and his reputation (with John Ratcliff, for instance) may suffer. It came thro' fucking Lionel. People with steel doors to their flats, are often in the Old Bailey three years later for con tricks.

I do hope I can get K. to judge people a little sooner, - before he gets bogged down with them. I prophesy no good out of all this. Let's hope no ill.

Keith from Badminton came down in the middle of all this. The studio goes apace. K. will be down there from Sept. 1 to do the wiring, for probably the best part of the month. I have only just been hit by that. It's no use pretending it isn't agony not to hear from him, because it is. He won't ring, let alone write, and I can't tell how I'll feel. Perhaps some work - no, I can't write about work.

I don't think I grab at him much. But in my thoughts I do, and I suppose that is what makes me guilty. I must, as usual, think of his good. Not what he wants, because of course at 22 he wants his own way and success and sex and money! But he does want fine work and fine feeling. That's why I'm his friend.

Sunday August 7 1983

Roy brought Liz round after ringing up yesterday. She's very gauche especially at first when she was downright rude. But only from shyness and social ineptitude. After a while she could be herself and was delightful. Roy seems to have a lot happening to him, a play for Birmingham, a play for M'chester Exchange, an interview with the Bush. Good. No mention of my TV play, of course. I daresay he never re-wrote it at all. I said were we going out to a meal, as we said on the 'phone. 'We'll see', said Roy. 'No, we won't. Bart's cooking and expecting us back', she said. Bart? Turns out she's sharing a flat with Bart Cossee, the stage-manager S. slept with on the first night of 'Reno'. I think S was rather smitten. So.

While they were here, Neil breezed in, back from Tunisia on a short break. Looked wonderful, a brighter tan, the hair on his arms and legs turned golden. Like K's, but more unusual as K. is fairer to start with. Film in chaos - of course. V. funny imitating Peter, Hugo Daly, who's also in it, just. Lynda having not had pains while he's been away, has started having them again. 'It's a wise child....

They all went. I'd drank my gins too early, and cooked my dinner feeling flat.

But mainly I thought of him in the studio - cajoling, joking, ordering, being firm, being crafty, lifting, inspiring, inventing, doing and being all the things an artist has to do, alas, to carry inferior people with him.

Monday August 8 1983

To the Haymarket to drop off Joe Searby's little present, Ego 7. Also to the typing place for the new installments of Nicholson. To the bank for new cheque-book. Saw Mr. Hawkins, who's hurt his toe but is still just as cheery.

Clipped the yews and weeded the paving. Debbie and Amanda arrived about 7.30, looking beautiful. A. is piquante, snub nose, smallish, blonde, round, with an adorable cracked whine in her voice, which doesn't sound adorable, but is. D. is tall, statuesque, with a really beautiful oval face, obviously dances and sings well. Unattractive accent, otherwise a dear. Both are quick, funny and brave. Their relationship is good. They told me about a violent quarrel they had the other day that ended in helpless laughter.

They endeared themselves to me thoroughly, by Debbie saying she'd only seen one episode of 'Studio', and thought the acting was terrible, but 'suddenly a big long number began, and it was marvelous.'

When Amanda realised it was K's big thing, she asked to hear it. Both were knackered out by it. They left about 11.30. The phone rang. K.!

I'd rung him about 5.30 to ask after the studio day. He was playing the track to the guitarist, and so I rang off at once. He'd rung to say thank you for Sat. Partly because he'd been able to produce some of the food in the studio. ('Kevin, you're a star'.) ' I really appreciate all you did.' He loved me being there. What a relief. But when am I going to learn that he loves me so that I don't keep on with this ridiculous baseless depression, which is an insult to our friendship? Of course it is tied up with this wretched wretched lack of work. When that's gone, perhaps I shall straighten myself out. I'm more in danger of failing him than the other way round.

Lin was there, and it's all smiles again. I wish I could make my mind up about her. Thank goodness he's being sensible.

Tuesday August 9 1983

Yvonne Bonnamy to lunch. A name from the past, an unhappy past, that grim season at Bristol in 1959. She was always negative, and here she still is amid the ruins of her life. I wonder what her children really think of her. She was returning my 'Great Actors of the Past' record, which she'd borrowed for her students. She returned it two months late, and arrived an hour late for lunch. Her bitterness against life might be a little mitigated if she kept her promises. Very interesting that a negative attitude to life is actually represented by almost every remark starting with a negative. She reminds me of Barbara New a little. She's now paper thin, and in the same way as Barbara, assumes you share her 'cynicism' and 'disillusion' - actually simply personal disappointment - which I find really insulting.

Oh dear what a depressing document my diary is! My life isn't as it appears. But of course I need the simple outlet. And my sense of fun and beauty already has an outlet. No jokes, it's silly - my life is full of jokes.

Even my feelings for K. are not strictly as they appear here, as the diary is the sketchbook in which I struggle to clarify them.

Still, it is true that he and my work are the central interests of my life. My work is in utter collapse, and is buggering up my clarity of mind about him. Still I do know I love him very much!

Wednesday August 10 1983

A bad day. Worked as usual at the programme. But got utterly bogged down with the beginning and the end, and flung out of the house and wandered all round London, from about three onwards, to the galleries and Trafalgar Sq., chatting to tourists etc.

The only think I clung to, was ringing K. at 6.0. As it was, I rang him at 5.30 when I got in. What a - well, not a surprise.! 'I was going to ring you, - can I come round tomorrow? I'm out of a job. They've turned the song down and that's it. And I have to pay the studio, so I'm in debt £170.' So there you are.

Lin's coming round tonight - twice in a week, gosh! - so that'll distract him. But this is really bad. And I must say what I wrote a couple of days ago. He must improve his immediate judgment of character, and he must ally himself with people of intellect. And not people with steel front doors introduced by Lionel Bart. He is going to need cultivated people round him to develop his gifts. Good heavens, does he suppose it's coincidence that he calls me his best friend?

Thursday August 11 1983 Friday August 12 1983

He rang at 1.30 today to say how appalled he'd been by 15 mins of war on the news. 'The forgotten war' Iraq-Iran, forgotten, tho' 200,000 have died. Soldiers of 12 were interviewed. In Africa a soldier with fearful burns. And so on. His dear generous spirit. People looking at us know nothing of our relationship. His views on war are one of the main planks of our relationship. I don't suppose even he realises that. Oh, my heart opens to him at moments like this. I would, I will, give all I have to make his life full and fruitful and, no, not happy necessarily, but using all his wonderful gifts properly.

His mother's sent me a photo of us together in the garden. It was just taken as Kevin had said to me, 'I shall strangle them if they stay another day,'

He arrived early at about six. Patricia can't see him till tomorrow. He looked bad. His face crumpled as we sat down to talk - I thought he was going to cry. I taped the talk so won't relate it all. He told me the whole sad story. A ghastly addition was that £100 was stolen from his bedroom - by that little creep of a singer, I bet. He had written out his whole career, incl. a blow by blow account of the last few days, for Patricia to claim some money. It finished 'Where does the bullshit end?'

He started to read it out to me, and I was forced to smile, partly from nerves at his upset, when he said stabbing his finger at me with great vehemence, 'At 19, I had a rock opera called Visiting Day, put on by Granada TV.' and so on. Oh dear, so sweet and sad. If only I knew the pop world better, but who does? Of course, human nature is the same, but the nature of the compromises vary.

However, I got it all said. He understood. And it's all on the tape. He stayed the night - so lovely . When he left in the morning, he put his things down to give me a very special long close hug.

But quite separate from all this, Lin rang up in the middle of the evening to say she'd turned Robert out, and he was prowling round the outside of the house, bargaining her car-keys for the door key. K. was splendid with her, calm, sensible, warm. That's his most mature side. She only rang back once; he said if she took Robert back after this, that would be it. I am very very glad for her sake, and to an extent, glad for K's sake, too. A long as there's never any question of 'I sent Robert away for you, and now you're treating me like this etc.' I don't think she's like that. I wonder how long it'll last, eighteen months perhaps, and then... After the initial sexual fascination is over, about then?, will be the dangerous time. Get over that, and they might go on for ages. Only other warning sign, tiny intimations that later she may be too demanding. 'You didn't ring me when I.' (If she can show that now, how much more will she do so perhaps, when she's confident.) Also one or two tiny signs that she looks on him as 'young' a little as Janet did. I meant Janet talked of him de haut en bas far more than I ever do! But these are only speculations, and may be quite unjust.

When he hugged me, I must record that it was very special, really close, really long, an important expression of close affection.

I rang him in the evening to see how he'd got on. Thank God she'd restored a bit of his faith, too. She'd been 'horrified' at his treatment, said she'd see about the money. Also gave him introductions to Bill Kenwright, Frank Dunlop, and he's to see Cameron again. And a lot of good that'll do. He wants me to see her, too. Well, I will.

Neil and Lynda came to dinner, with their American friend, Shelley. She’s a 20-year-old Californian blonde, attractive at a (very) quick glance, a gratingly flat American voice, which I only mention as she is going to drama-school here, and a considerable hard-headed naiveté which I found rather jolly, just for an evening. She did make some naked remarks, among them the inevitable, 'All these books, and have you read them all?' Oh dear. She's been a very good friend to Lynda. A successful evening. K. rang up about ten, to speak to N. and L. I'd said come to dinner, too, but he said he wouldn't be in the mood to chat. Well, I do see.

Saturday August 13 1983

Rang him at two to see if he was all right. He said he had been till Lionel rang, to accuse him of telling people he was a drunkard. That's that Bob Dicks again, I suppose. I must say, L.B. is bad news. Look at the people he's introduced to K. Lin's coming round tonight, so he won't come out with Philip and me to Deptford.

Later.

So Philip and I motored out to the Albany Empire. Much better theatre than I expected. A side- road off the High St., just for pedestrians. A low fairy lit building, opened by the Princess of W. Auditorium round, with one gallery. Tables and chairs. Striking use of metal slatting and the pipes carrying the lighting and heating in the ceiling. Food, a cadenza on jacket potatoes. Sensible. Show, Eric Boeasian. 1st half brilliant bravura display as the whole of an American radio station. Second half more ponderous, more local, less effective. He's personable, vital, but still needs two more notches somewhere for a triumphant evening, as opposed to successful.

Philip in a much better temper and less restless. Still no Simon.

Sunday August 14 1983

Simon rang at ten, in a hurry. No mention of tonight. Meet on Wed at 1.0 here and work in afternoon. Left the 'phone to eat the breakfast S. Hopps had cooked. No I suppose I'm very low. When I put the 'phone down, I felt as bad as I've ever felt. Panicked, walking up and down, my brain spinning out of control with despair.

After lunch I had to ring K. He was marvelous - I didn't show my full despair. He was quite angry with S. 'Well, you've got to tell someone.' No, he couldn't come, because Lin didn't come last night, but tonight. Half an hour later, he rang again, to say play these two Rickie Lee Jones numbers. That touched me deeply. Music that he likes he doesn't talk about all that much. He was working, too. Sweet.

Rang Neil. Lynda said she was just going to lie down. Could I come round about 4.0? Went off to Trafalgar Sq. just to be with someone, that is the extraordinary state I was in, but these months out of work. Got to N's his car wasn't outside, so I thought I'd better not go in in case I disturbed her. So I came home. Was sitting having dinner when N. rang. He was so kind I sobbed badly. Lynda was apologetic for not realising I was upset, quite unjustifiably. Asked me to lunch tomorrow.

The crying calmed me down, and I was able to think It is interesting that the despair I have been feeling, is not over K. thank god. Here we are, in settled golden almost-for-granted-friendship.

And yet I felt like this. It's almost a relief to find that it's my filthy career.

Monday August 15 1983

K. rang at 11.30 for a chat, and to say Lin has completely finished with Robert, put the rest of his things at his mother's, got the car keys back, and it is over. Good. That's that. She's coming to him tonight now! They had a misunderstanding. He said he work out some sort of electrical lead for her. She thought he was ringing her back. He sat up till 3.0 making it, and then thought it was too late to ring her. She sat up all night waiting! Well, there you are, she's in love, isn't she? He told me the other day that he forgot her birthday! Well. I do hope he really falls for her. He must do soon. Completely.

Neil called me, and we lunched in the garden. Lynda having contractions again, every ten mins, since 4.0 in the morning. They went on till 4.0 in the afternoon, and started to slacken off. She rang the hospital, was told that's all right, and she must just wait, and the poor darling cried. So she and I have cried in front of each other - another stage. I left them still on the edge of that extraordinary experience.

The 'phone went about 6.30. 'Hullo, Angus you old Shakespearean fart.' Phil Lawrence. Ringing from K's. Oh dear. I don't mind that sort of address, but he doesn't know I don't. He's always forcing the note and there is much too big a gap between his social and his private manners. K came on and had to talk carefully. Could they come to dinner, Tues or Wed.? Was that all right? Wed, I said. 'Lin's here, would you like a word?' I would. She's soothing. I asked her whether she'd like to come, too, and then took it back. She said she thought it ought to be a boys' own evening. I thought how much nicer if she were here, - it might restrain Phil from his more tiresome bar-room flights. K. was good. His perception doesn't waver for a minute these days.

Felt a little better. But still my mind turning out of control.

Tuesday August 16 1983

Have I mentioned Joe Searby before? A youngster I met in 'Tears Before Bedtime' in the spring. Now in 'Patriot for Me' at the Haymarket. Came to lunch. Has written to me from Chichester quite long chatty letters. Strange and delightful. Medium height, blond. Pale olive fine skin. Square-shoulders. Very straight features, but like hero of 'She'. Father reader in history at Trinity Hall. Likes both parents. Closer to his mother. Veget. Brought a bottle of Graves and drank a lot of it to my surprise. He had seemed austere. Just as well, as the talk limped at first. He had little small talk. But is a bit of a mystery. 20.

'What did you do with yourself at Chich. during the day?' 'Not much. Lazed around. Swam. Chatted.' There's something there or he wouldn't have written me. Ate a lot. We go on. Laughs well, but doesn't make jokes himself. Loved Rita Streich.

While he was here, K. rang about 2.0 to say was it really all right about tonight, now that he could talk? Lin is coming as well, 'cos he knows how tiresome Phil is, 'She can talk to you, and I can take him on.' He didn't ask if she could come, (or indeed Phil, because he knows I have to have him cos of his mother dying) and that thrills me. He's mapped out the evening!

An hour later, Joe still here, he rang again, beside himself. 'Something terrible's happened. I've talked to Bill Kenwright, and a musical's coming in with five synthesisers and percussion and keyboard.' What does that remind you of?' Joe called out at that moment, and my mind slipped and I said 'The record'. But of course it's Southampton. 'Someone’s fucking stolen my idea, and David Gilmore's been so bloody slow. I am on the very edge of giving up altogether. I'm going out now for a long walk. I can't see Frank Dunlop. Will you ring my agent? I can't bring myself to.' I said I'd go round if he wanted me to. 'No, I'm going for a long walk, when is all this crap going to finish?'

And slam down went the 'phone, for all the world as if it were all my fault. I was glad I had to go on entertaining Joe - I was so concerned. (Tho’ his losing his temper with, as it were, me, always exhilarates me, with the absolute trust it shows.)

The moment Joe went off to his understudy call, about 4.0, I rang back. He hadn't gone for a long walk - he was there! I said, 'Do you want to come round here?' 'No.' 'Do you want me to come round?' 'No'. 'Right, bye.'

Washed up, and worked a bit, and lay down and read and napped. About 4.30, K. rang just to say, where was the Young Vic. for his appt with Frank Dunlop. 'How are you?' 'I'm all right', I said. Gave him instructions.

At 5.30 I rang him, 'cos he's said he'd find something to do, after. I said, 'Just a quick call, to say I'm in and free all night, you can come here, or I'll go where you are, if you decide you don't want to be alone.' 'That's good to hear.'

At 9.30 he rang again. He'd been two or three hours, with Frank Dunlop. 'And don't think I'm being conceited, but I think I knocked him out. I wore my skins and white trousers and a nice belt, and I saw his jaw drop three separate times. He said shitty things happen, you've got to get used to it. I'm going to the first night of the new musical David Land's doing. He's the man who commissioned 'Superstar'. There's an idea I might MD one of the shows.'

Not the one that's coming in presumably. But good for Patricia, she had obviously primed F.D. to encourage K. Good. But there may be little more to it than that. Unless there's a lot of luck about, I don't see him getting anything from F.D. soon. And does he know he's gay, which may account for the 2 1/2 hours. However, it's cheered him up, thank god. He's going out with Phil L. He says he's no better for his mother dying, he's worse. So he's taking him to the gay disco 'Heaven'.

!! Oh, I did laugh. But I do sort of see. But oh how I loved this. 'I've mapped out Wed eve. to save you as much of Phil as possible. Lin'll come down and help you with the meal, while I keep him going over the gins. Then you can have him for a bit after din. to talk about his mother when he's drunk, and Lin and I'll walk in the garden or something. It'll all be eye-line, won't it? We must be careful nobody sees. I won't have any time alone with you.'

'Well', I said, 'that doesn't matter really, not now, does it?'

'No', he said, very quietly, 'we don't need it. - I'm sorry about this afternoon.'

'That's all right. I was glad you could. Listen, whenever something like this happens, you realise I would, I will drop everything, even come away from my guests, if you want me, if you're really upset.'

'You know that works the other way round, too, don't you?'

How odd. How lucky I am. Shall I ever take him for granted? I must try. I am beginning to in patches. I wasn't upset at any point - except for him.

Wednesday August 17 1983

The telephone rang at 12.45 last night, twice, but each time no answer, as if someone was in an un-working 'phone-box. I thought it might be Neil. But no. Nor S or K. So....

S. rang to say he'd be 22 mins late. We had the usual jolly and inspiring meeting. Worked for two hours and he made some really valuable basic creative suggestions. Approach it for the moment only for its action, get that settled, then illustrate it. I really think that gives me a line. But he is going away on Sunday for another ten days to Mykonos with Az. Just a holiday.

In addition, he made a dreadfully insensitive remark. He said he was feeling as if he wanted to act again in the theatre. 'That evening ritual does give a shape to the day, doesn't it?'

Yes, it does.

Yes, it does. I am nearly dying without it. I don't know what to say to him. I cannot miss this chance. But he isn't being - well, where's the pressure, the deadline?

I must make it myself, I suppose.

K. Phil and Lin arrived about seven. I'd forgotten how P. forces the conversation - he's either being four-ale bar or sentimental. He slightly embarrasses me at first, and I find it difficult to join in. I was interested that L. said one or two quite savage things to him. That, and my shyness, really, made K. come down to the kitchen where we'd gone, to say 'ease upon him, he can't take it.' Well of course, I understand, but he ought to ease up, too! Still, I think I made all well later. Ate on the upper bit of the garden bit difficult, meal not my best. Maybe all right.

Had twenty mins with P. and a little weep and the story of his mother. Poor clumsy boy, he really loved her.

K. hugged me really close when he arrived, and I was able to whisper about Simon, and tell him not to say more He was cross for me.

One or two more signs that L. is trying to boss him a bit. I like her just as much for myself, but she said about pot, as they were leaving, 'It's a pity not to be in control of your own body.' There are one or two little things that remind me of Janet in her 'little-boy' attitude that may be dangerous - for her, I mean. I also caught her thinking why should I have to sit through this, when P. was talking about his mother. Fair enough. I'd like an evening without someone as crude and clamping as Phil. She is a comfort domestically, as she knows what is to be done, and needs doing, of course. And she's not slow. But for my admittedly-super-sensitive-where-he's- concerned-taste, she criticises him a bit too much in public. He didn't laugh at a joke of mine, and she said, 'You weren't listening, were you? I'll explain it to you later.' Hm. He often doesn't listen. He dreams.

But the best I got out of the evening was our complete closeness. My knowledge that he caught and followed everything that might trouble me. Without words. At the end, he said, for, I think, the very first time, 'Now when am I going to see you again?' For K. that's sensational. (She said, comically? 'Never.' Freud?)

At the end he saw to it he was last, came into my arms for a real closeness, and for the first time, we kissed. He knew I'd pushed my despair aside, he held me and said he'd ring tomorrow, and murmured bits of comfort. Holding, and being held by that thin hard body, gives me a moment of hope, a moment? a life.

Thursday August 18 1983

He rang as promised at 11.30, and was a real comfort and help. His voice is so tender now and soft and he so obviously minds so much. I am beginning to settle into my love for him and he for me.

He told me Frank Dunlop had 'Wayne's Dad' on his desk. 'The music is great, the story - well....' So I won't even be in that. He's seeing Bob M. today. I pray that goes forward.

Later.

John and Simon came round, all went beautifully. Dinner in the garden was a great success. (I forgot to record that Lin took some flashlight photos the night before. It's no use - I do hate that, it's so common. But everyone does it. Look at Kenneth Clark!) Altogether the evening was a soothing success. I have felt better the last couple of days - I don't know why. 'Things' aren't any better.

Why don't I record what I read? I'm re-reading a lot of books I read just after D. died, because I either misread them or don't remember a thing about them. Kenneth Clark's autobiography, for two. What a charming candid man!

Isn't it strange the urge to keep describing my love for K? There the feeling is, filling my whole life my whole day. It's the best thing that's happened to me since D. That any good?

I still fear I can't see enough difference between his relationship with Janet, and with L. More of that.

Friday August 19 1983

Neil rang in ecstasy, a girl, Lucy China, born at 1.30. Sucked immediately. Neil cut the umbilical cord.

Lovely.

Saturday August 20 1983

N. picked me up at 11.30 an hour later than he'd said, as he drank four bots of champagne last night!

Lynda looks marvelous and the baby is not the usual degenerate orange monkey, but quite presentable already as less than a day old. N. in a daze, - I couldn't decide how far it was fatherhood or champagne. He spent last evening with Tony thing! that dreary creature. He is a funny boy.

Rang K. to tell him, and so we'll go and see the baby tomorrow afternoon. If only I can think of something to help him professionally. Forgot to record the other day that, in discussing the possible album he and Simon Lee are writing for the head of CBS, he did express misgivings as to whether he was ready and up to it yet. Good.

To Querelle at Screen on Hill. Very dull.

A mass of sawdust on the pavement was all that remained of a security guard who bled to death outside the tube-station, after being shot by a robber.

Sunday August 21 1983

He arrived about 3.30 and I taped the first part of the talk. Most interesting and worrying, he's quarreled with Lin. They didn't make love last night or this morning - that's really unusual. I couldn't see where the quarrel lay, but I fear her likeness to Janet becomes more apparent not less. He went to a gig given by the band her sister's boyfriend plays in. Poor K. was really in difficulties all night because it was bad. Doesn't all her antennae call out to catch his difficulty and even pain? And pain at having to say it's bad? Obviously not. Once more he's overestimating a girl.

He didn't seem upset especially. But perhaps he will be if it really does finish.

What it is, is that he longs for an intelligent sensitive girl.

That's what he must have.

Off to see the baby. He was sweet with it and Lynda.

Met a pleasant actor at the bedside called Geoffrey Freshwater. At the RSC, v. busy, the lucky man.

Simon Lee had asked us to tea. We didn't go, but went round there after ours, and their dinner. And I didn't mind a bit. We have got to the stage of knowing, as he said, not me! 'We've got the rest of our lives to say it all.' True, and we now can go out together. So I met one of his male lovers. Bit pulpy-faced a little like George III but dark, pleasant, nice manners (a Wykehamist!) ordinary London public-schoolboy, of a fairly well-off family. Instant social rapport, because of both knowing the rules, in a way that K doesn't. Obviously he made the running - I mean, it's painfully obvious that K let him make love to him - three times. (K also told me about another male lover, Christian, French. They shared a bed, so probably only once. He said, I find it difficult honestly to remember all that bit of my life.' 'I expect you were stoned all the time.' 'Yes, perhaps I was', he said, laughing, 'no, I wasn't, in those days I was stoned on fresh air.' Other guests two rather egregious boys, one, blond, eighteen, all in white, works in box-office at Shaftesbury, from the Channel Isles, a little thing, wants to be an actor. Unless I'm much mistaken, he'll be a rather superior tart. The other, dark, goodish looking, going to drama school in March. Quite intriguing, I think he said he introduced Simon L. to that head of CBS who's asked for their tape. What was their relationship? He had an intriguing (in both senses) manner, - I would like to have investigated how he was living. Very in and out with the sophistication. Is he a kept boy? Simon's sister, plump, almost fat, genial-looking, acting ASM at Shaftesbury. K. had told me before we got there that she'd said to him at 13, the order she liked to have sex in, namely, (i) kissing (ii) cuddles (iii) blow-job!

On the way home, L. said he was talking to her all that time because she's always been stuck on him, and still is. Who can be surprised? Last but not least, Tracie Bennett. Not really pretty at all, or even sexy. But real. To a degree that upsets her. Asked her to dinner. She gave us a lift to the tube. It was 11.30 and K. could only get as far as Hyde Park Cr.

He said, 'I really get off on you knocking out my friends.' I was aware of him all the time, of course, and kept catching bits of his talk, but this time I was especially aware, (as I have been lately) how he was aware of me, and catching bits of my talk.

Two things during our time here, 'The three people who mean most to me, you and Phil and Lin.' It may have been 'anything' rather than 'most'. Also we talked of Simon suddenly having a lot of money, and that's why he's been a bit cavalier lately, perhaps. Of course, he thought of himself, and what he would do. Of course I thought of him in Los Angeles or just 'away', actually or spiritually. He said, 'Do you think I would go away and lose touch at all?' And with an expression I've never seen on his face, he said, 'Never, no way - with an emphasis that made me believe him.

Before we went to the baby, I held him close, and said, 'I'm so glad of you.' He said, 'And I'm so glad of you.' And I believe it's true.

Monday August 22 1983

To the film of 'Fanny and Alexander'. Marvelous bits, especially the screams of anguish from the widow. Also irritating patches. I got weary of the laughter. But a big impressive affair. Sets clothes, hair etc. superb. Little boy marvelous.

Rang him quickly at lunchtime. And again at 7.30. 'Are you all right?' 'Are you all right?' Lin had done a quick call to say she'd ring tonight. He didn't ring back, so I hope that means they've made it up. But it could mean it was worse. He seldom rings straightaway after anything bad. But, as with Janet, I hope it goes on for a bit longer.

I can't believe he doesn't deal well with them. I'm sure his other dimension upsets her. And she doesn't know a third of it yet. And of course music is a stumbling block. He has no idea yet of how powerful his personality is. When he's hating music, his eyes shoot sparks.

Tuesday August 23 1983

To lunch with John N. as usual at that place next the Coliseum. He thinks he's got an offer for Holland Park, thank God. Walked with him to the office and back to hair.

Rang K. from Austin Reed's. She hasn't rung for a proper call. Silly girl, from any point of view.

He hadn't paid his mortgage, over £600, - he'd overlooked it. He hadn't - I expect he was waiting to become a millionaire. I spoke soothingly, I hope, and rang off, as a young woman was waiting for the 'phone. I said sorry, but it was love and money troubles. 'Well, I must say, it sounded riveting.'

Rang to go on with talk when I got home about 5.30. I said get advance of PRS from MLR. Also lease of flat as security for overdraft, then the bank won't bother you. As for Lin, I speculated a good deal. 'I'm glad you're speculating, too. I'm beginning to get paranoid, thinking it's all my fault.' I said to him what I wrote yesterday. She may have agreed with him in the car about the gig, but I cannot believe she wasn't thrown by (his description) feeling 'very awkward all the evening.' She must have felt the alien and higher standards.

He rang again at nine-ish. 'Are you watching the Tony Randall film' I was. It was about a middle aged homosexual who lets a young girl share his apartment, gets very fond of her, and of her illegitimate baby and goes to court to keep the child. All ends happily after a sticky middle. It was a well-written very well acted film. And K. had seen the parallel in the scenes between Randall and the girl. Very vivid parallels. I rang after the film. We had one of the loveliest talks, about the film and did I mind he saw the likeness and it had made him realise... I've been thinking about Christmas. It would be so lovely if we could have it here - just you and me and Phil. And I could get stoned. Simon Lee is wild about you, knocked out by you.'

I can't remember how I put it, or why, but I said something that made K. say, in his tenderest voice, 'Well, if I had to choose between you, you know which I'd choose, don't you? Every time.’

'I do, I do, I do, I do, I do. I'm very lucky.'

And I could say 'See you tomorrow.' I am appreciating this happiness while I've got it.

Wednesday August 24 1983

To Euston to meet the Henslowes. Off to walk round Covent Garden, which Peter H. had never seen! Nor had the wife or daughter, who have only been to London twice. They are pleasant enough, but he is a bit of a booby, and she is a bit busy, and said too often how different London was. The girl is rather beautiful, but odd. We went to Cafe des Amis, which happily they liked. The girl, Ann, who'd announced that she wanted to see the Planetarium, because she is to become a professional astrologer (!) the parents thought they'd go to the Royal Academy. Peter wanted to go to Carnaby St. So we did. It is sleazy, - most of the things looked behind the times to me and really cheap. About ten to three I took him off to Kevin's, who was marvelous with him. Asked his help for the robotic scene in 'The Plastic Mac'. He has absolute social ease, thank god. Anyone who didn't get on with K. has something wrong with them. I had to leave to go and pick them up, so never saw him dance. However, he did open up a lot, and K. said it was bad seeing him close up again, when they all came in. K. was very impressed with him and his dancing.

When they went off to the tube, the mother said 'Oh, what charm! and talent! it's bursting out of him. Good.

He murmured to me he'd had a bad call from Lin. So on the way to the cinema he brought himself to talk of it. She'd rung to say she wasn't coming last night, after all. What's more, she was going to see Robert. She also said when he raised his voice, 'Now you're being very 22'. Also It was all getting too intense. Apparently her mother is in a great state, but still I'm amazed and disappointed. It's only a week ago that she was here and talking completely possessively about K., and for instance, amazed that he could ever have been thoughtless, and so on. It seems my original misgivings were right. She does like mess. 'War Games' I enjoyed. K. rather less than I. He always seems to be thrilled by films he sees when I'm not there! I expect he's less stoned with me.

At dinner I said I was amazed by Lin. In real pain he said he didn't want to talk about it again. I was cross with myself, but he got over it, and seemed to enjoy his dinner. I'm afraid I like to talk over things again and again. I must always remember to let him begin. Even unhappy as he was, (and he was, - during the coffee, he looked away across the restaurant with a very sad look) he remembered to say that we must have our day out for my glasses and suit. And we'd spend the bank holiday together.

He actually feels it a blow to his male pride, I think. I cannot imagine how any girl wouldn't want to stick to K.

Thursday August 25 1983

Yes, I do wish he was a better judge of character. He will be, of course, but he will suffer much before he has learnt by bitter experience. I mean, I'm quite sure that, if Lin is a hopeless mess, I would have known it after only one or two of those 'long talks' before bed, instead of not being sure after nearly a year. But I love him for it as well, for his enthusiasm and relish for, and belief in, people, and life. For refusing to become cynical. Rang him to get Bob's no. He's juggling rather helplessly with the w/e as usual between the Notting Hill carnival, his aunt, and me!

Lovely warm evening with George and Gerry. She has mellowed - not surprisingly in twenty years. Photos of her children - the boy is 20! looks like her, so does the girl really. They are good decent people - we laughed and remembered the past.

Friday August 26 1983

He's just rung, ten to eleven. 'Are you having anyone else with Bob? Can I come too? I might bring someone with me, I don't know who. I might go out and find someone, I'm in a very strange mood today.' I said 'Have you heard from Lin?' 'Yes, just this minute.' No wonder he's in a strange mood. Poor little boy, why doesn't that wretched girl sense what a delicate intense mechanism she's wrenching and twisting in her clumsy selfishness?

Later.

It's impossible that I shouldn't write down my pleasure that he wants to come here when he's unhappy. Even tho' the evening may go wrong - not to mention the weekend. But I don't really care any more. I just pour out my love, and let him take it as he will. It only occurred to me today, catching a phrase in one of M. Belloe L's books, 'naturally completely under the influence of the one person in the world who really loved her', that that's what he senses, with his fine antennae - I the only person in his life who really loves him and understands him. But let there be someone else soon. Oh, how I sometimes rage that I cannot save him from pain. But then I'd save him from being human. It's even painful loving him! Let alone Lin being painful to him by behaving badly.

Later still.

He arrived about 5.30. Lovely. With a tape of a new song. He'd written the words straight down almost without a crossing-out in bed at half past two in the morning. I copied it out. It's called Third World Tigers.

Noone's aware of them. Their pending extinction. A message to man. The lovely people Who came from the City, Hold white flags before them A message from man

Chor.

We love you We surrender We represent The First World Please help us Please forgive us We represent The First World

The Last World.

There's another verse I must add next time. He sang it live to the track he'd just done this afternoon. That's a picture I won't forget - in a funny shrunk sweat-shirt in oblongs of pale green and grey, and grey, jogging trousers, sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa, beating out the rhythm on his leg, his eyes closed. The music is as good as the lyric, it's a perfect little thing, the best of his tries at a pop song yet. What can he do with it?

He told me about Lin. She'd rung again and had come a bit nearer being sorry. He said again if she took Robert back that'd be it. I said, 'But otherwise, you'd take her back.' 'Oh, yes'. A pity. I'm afraid I've now changed my mind. I fear no good from her. I hope I'm wrong, because he's fascinated by her. (I still have to have proof that it is more than a physical fascination.

Bob Mason arrived. What a nice man! Sound, honest, realistic and theatre loving and trained, which I hadn't really realised. Many swappings and talks. K's song he loved, too, thought it as good as I did. But our talk a bit excluded K., who was pretty subdued for him. However, it was right really, because I needed to talk to Bob, as it was the first time, I've got K. all the time. They only thing about Bob that bothered me, is he takes cocaine sometimes. If someone as straight as he takes coke, things are going badly. And, of course, K. will. I also caught K telling how he tried some mescalin. Oh dear, he'd do anything. I get worried sometimes, thinking what he's done already, at 22, such a resilient age, and only at the beginning of difficulties. What will he be like in agony at 30? I don't know. But I hope to be there.

Helena, Bob's girlfriend, came after 'Daisy'. I fed her and talked. She's nice. Beautiful eyes. Pleasant, but not much personality. K. left at about 11.15, saying he was tired, poor love.

Saturday August 27 1983

Shopped for holiday weekend. K. rang about 12.30 to say his aunt wasn't this w/e - well, I knew that - and only shop for one meal. I'll ring back when I know what I'm doing the next fortnight.' Poor dear asked me the dates, as he had literally no idea what day it was. He left his diary in the rec. studio and they haven't sent it back yet.

I am still foolish enough to stay in because he's going to ring. And I want to suggest that I cook dinner for him tomorrow, stay the night, and go back after dinner on Mon. Is that too much for him? I suppose it is. But I am dreading the loneliness of today, let alone tomorrow. It has come to a sort of panic - I, who used to be so fruitfully alone. Even K and the Henslowes on Wed., the Warings on Thur. and Bob and K last night makes no difference today.

And K. is one of the few remaining realities, - the main one - in a disintegrating world. And when I say panic, I mean panic - a kind of non-physical giddiness, a going down the plug-hole. I don't think it's dishonest or self-indulgent to say that I think of him constantly and with loving tenderness, and that I take refuge in such thoughts of him and his career, because I can't find a refuge anywhere else. And because he has a real concern for me - he really worries about me, that makes me feel a little less panicky.

Later.

It is very difficult to analyse my panic and despair. I don't know why it's come on me now, when everything could be so good. I suppose it is only the out-of-workness. But without him this last year, I believe I might have tried to kill myself at some point or another, or done something extreme. He hasn't rung, by the way, and its 6.0. Despite the fact that I still have to stay in in case, I have at least got far enough, and know him well enough, not to care a scrap.

Sunday August 28 1983

He's just rung to say 'See you this afternoon. Isn't that what we're doing?' Bliss.

Wednesday August 31 1983

As usual, couldn't write at K's. Too full. Got there at 5.0. He sang the Third World Tigers song to me again, and I copied out the second verse this time -

The third world tigers Jaws the deadliest known Sprint faster than light See their young die young So proud are the people For killing the beast Make Kings and Queens leaders A bullet for a kingdom.

He told me about his Saturday. He'd gone to Bob M's for a final talk about S'hampton. Then on to Simon Lee's, where something of the same party as before was collected. They played the truth game, god save the mark. As he described it, it sounded a bit dangerous, but also terribly slow and dull. He kept saying 'So after about two hours, we got round to asking some questions. As always with the truth game, it was started by someone unhappy and dissatisfied with themselves, sexually frustrated and interested in trouble – i.e. Simon Lee. K, when asked to say who in the room he fancied said 'Everyone'. And then claimed to be playing it seriously. Then he slept with the sister and Tina, the other girl there, who obviously found it a bit embarrassing. K. described delightfully, coaxing her nearer him by stroking her head and saying 'Put your head on my chest - it'll be comfier, I'll tell you a story.' I do love them for the way they sleep together without sex - a real advance. But I must say I think most of the evening was the result of pot, and therefore had a tiresome slowness and sinisterness about it. I do think drink tho' cruder with its quarrels and sickness and incoherence is healthier and not so paranoid. Because I get a bit aggressive over the gin, At least he played them tigers, and got an excellent reaction earlier on. And he himself is dealing with such evenings much better. We had good talk and music and food. Went to bed about 2.30. I didn't wake up till 11.0. Then the 'phone rang. Chris the oboe- player hitch-hiking from M'chester. K. got up about twelve to find me working at the Nicolson. I'd already had two or three really good ideas, and we sat and worked together after he cooked lunch in perfect silence and harmony, such as I haven't felt since D. died. Which is why I had good ideas which have eluded me all this week. Walked in the park, laughed a lot, told him some actor's stories! Never thought I'd live - ! Chicken breasts for dinner. Chris turned up later, sweet fat boy with a head shaved bald for a wager. (Well, it's amazing to think K. would only just have left!)

K. said about 2.30, he was going to bed and Chris could share it. So I put the bed up and lay down. They then proceeded to talk and laugh and play the radio, waking me up five times in the next hour! I admit I was a bit drunk, but I really was going mad, too. Got up, dressed. K. caught me going out of the door. 'For God's sake, come back. I shall be really angry if you go like this. Come back' So I shamefacedly did. So like him not to cringe and say sorry. Which we both did the next morning. Further crumpled roseleaf. He mentioned Tigers. I said to Chris, innocent as the day, 'It's wonderful'. He told me really passionately - he depended on a completely unbiased response, he needed it etc. Bob M. I'd done it to, and Bob had said he didn't like to have an opinion imposed on him etc etc. 'You should have heard yourself'. Now I was embarrassed and a bit hurt in my emotions because it was him, and agreed never to do it again because he didn't want it. But intellectually I remained unmoved, more than a little amazed at the revelation of a semi-educated world where judgment is so precarious it can only be exercised in a vacuum. I have not spent my life among people who lack absolute standards. Odd, I daresay, on consideration that Bob M. probably doesn't much like me at all.

Oh K had B M's portfolio of lyrics, poems, etc. which we went through. Some very good. Awful and Studio-like, the moment he thinks he's being serious. One began something like 'O grand refrigeration of capability.'

But neither of these rows had the slightest effect on us. I'd discussed his hair, said I'd pay for him to have it done before S'hampton, on Wed. He hasn't had it cut since Manchester! and it was beginning to look really shapeless, with the layering growing out into long lumps. I got Neil's man's number. He made an appointment and said come with me! So, staggered, I did. I think all this time, he really hasn't known where or whether to go, or what style to choose. Amazing that he should take my eye, but good. I can make him look his best, I'm pretty sure. But why didn't he ask that little Mark, whose hair he liked, where he went. Sometimes he's so vulnerable and creeps under my wing. He lay on the back-wash, and, all his hair wetted back, his face was really staggeringly beautiful. He gives himself up to a sensation like that. I stayed all thro' and talked to nice Chris, who cut it. He'll go back next week for further chat and re-styling perhaps, now that C knows his hair. Good.

(Chris the oboe-player said at one point to me, alone, 'I do admire K. for having got it all together, this flat and all this work and a marvelous life.' ! When I think how the poor child is suffering!)

After hair, to Bendick's for coffee, in Sloane St. He looked round at the chandelier and red banquettes, quite staggered that a coffee-shop could be like a good restaurant. 'Is this what coffee-shops were like? How do you know all these places?' We talked and talked. I expressed my fears of him going away, perhaps to California, away from this incredible closeness and day to day intimacy, how I had to know what was happening to him. 'You always will.' He said my concern was never oppressive. 'And away from my standards' I said unforgivably. But he made it forgivable by touching my hand and saying 'I'll never forget your standards.'

He hasn't heard from Lin since Wed. I think, and said on the 'phone to someone, oh, Phil Sterio, 'I'm breaking up with Lin, I think.' Oh dear.

Thursday September 1 1983

Too tired to write about Tracie Bennett. She was looking really pretty, tho' always I fear, in a 'bold' shop-girl way. Sweet-pea colours, backless dress, pale lavendar shoes. She was a bit shrill at first, from shyness, as so many people are, taking refuge in hideous 'funny' M'chester voices. But she got right out of that. We had real talk. What a time she's had. A father who beat them and left when she was a child, - tho' he had three children by the time he was twenty-two, so - imagine K. with a wife let alone three children. Her agent sounds hopelessly populist, and her private life non-existent. She is closest to her mother, not a good augary for successful marriage.

Very interesting about K. 'He's so different now, sat on Saturday so silent, just looking. He was so bubbly in Manchester.' 'He talked so much of you and in such a way. He thinks the world of you.' And again, 'Kevin frightens me, you know.' He rang up at 6.15 to say he'd got the Southampton Commission. Oh, I wished Tracie hadn't been there, so that I could jump about and cry all evening.

He rang again at about 11.45, partly to see how it was going. And spoke to Tracie who said she was having a wonderful evening and I think meant it. I certainly enjoyed it. But how I enjoy him ringing me while she's here.

Still very humid and heavy. Peter Henslowe to stay. Met at Euston, lunch. Covent Garden, Buck. House, tea, a bad new film, dinner. He is a dear sweet boy, and back at the house began to talk freely. Good. But of course he's 15, and has no general culture at all. Can talk of literally nothing but pop music and has robotic and mime ambition. I am pleased to encourage him, and find him appealing, but a bit heavy-going. Rang K. at 6.0ish for tomorrow. He wants Bob M. to meet Peter. Good. Said he'd ring back when we got home. I said 11.30 to 12.0 At 12.30 I rang to say I was going to bed. 'Oh, I forgot', laughter in the background. He'd said he was doing something he'd tell me about tomorrow, and I'd said, 'Oh is it Lin?' '_Lin' he said, as if that was the last person he'd ever.... It turned out it was an American woman songwriter, whom he described in her hearing as 'totally mad and wildly attractive.'! He was just in the middle of playing her a song.

I don't expect anyone to believe me, but the pang I get is of worry that he may be influenced wrongly. Why? I must get out of that, too. He is sensible and has remained so. And clings to my reliability.

Yes, I am getting there. It's true. Thank god.

This love I have for him is the second best thing in my life. I will not betray it by selfishness.

Friday September 2 1983 Saturday September 3 1983 Sunday September 4 1983

Couldn't have written Friday, as I was upset. Peter and I stayed in as K. was coming over. He'd been late with the Yank, and I woke him at 12.0! Later he rang again to say he'd had a bad call from Lin, and what was he to bring? (Tape for Peter to dance to.) He got here about two, we'd had ours, so I made him an omelette separately. What is Lin doing? She must be as Ii feared. Peter and he got on really well, because K. can talk non-stop about pop-music. Peter danced. Hm. Not as good as all that. K. said let's go to his place, play the film of MASH, eat, and then off they'd go to Camden Palace, the famous disco, or whatever it is. MASH is very very good. Well acted, you see, throughout. About 10.0 K. rang a black friend of his, Kelvin something, to say come, too. The next day he'd told me Kelvin had told him how dreary the Palace was. So when at eleven they started to get ready, he was rather tetchy. There they were getting dressed in his bedroom, and emerged made-up to the eyes. But before that, when the taxi I'd ordered, had arrived, I'd gone down to tell it to wait, and there was Phil Lawrence! wanting to come up. As I knew that would delay them further and I was paying for the taxi, I turned him away. K. snapped my head off, 'he's my friend etc.' I went and sat in the sitting-room and felt, as usual, quite awful. I had been going to take the taxi on home, but, stopping only to snap his head off, and leave a £20 note on the table, I walked off into the rain. My decision to cut K. out of my life lasted till the next morning, when I said on the 'phone to him, 'Don't snap my head off like that - half a glance is enough.' He said the Palace was 'just doctors and nurses in jeans.' The lighting was very good, but very poorly used. Perhaps it was good for a bit after it opened.

Told Peter to go to the King's Rd by himself. How could I go with him? And get himself to Euston, too. Heavens, he's fifteen. He did. Off to lunch with Simon. At Giardino's - not too hot. I should say it'll not last - a _bit sleazy. Food reasonable. To the bookshops. S. spent £170 in the Arts Council b'shop. Bought me the new H. Irving book, £20! Then to tea at Patisserie Valerie, then to Wigmore Hall to pick up the tickets, across the road to the newish pedestrian precinct behind Oxford St. and a cocktail bar called Coconut Grove, - I had champagne cocktails, £3.15 each, and S. as usual, varied, starting with something based on creme de menthe, and god only knows what his other drinks were based on. There were two girls at the next table we could have gone off with. Tall, with brown hair and a gentle understanding smile.

The concert was enjoyable. A life of Rehnolds Hahn, with narration. Even the narrator/accompanist was a poor amateur speaker, and the singers' spoken contributions were painful. I much liked Patricia Rocano: an Indian girl, with a quite lovely voice, tho' as yet a little unplaced, and a piquant contrast, in her sari, with the light French 'Edwardian' music. Also Anthony Rolfe Johnson at least in the second half, especially in some dialect Venetian songs he'd translated himself. They seemed to liberate him from the dryish tone and carefulness he and the other two male singers had exhibited before. Martyn Hill, especially, in Si Mas Vers v. poor, a great contrast to his record which Simon played me after. Ann, who was there with the Times critic, Noel Gorwin said it was a recording voice really.

I said Rocano's platform manner was a little like hers. 'Surely' Ann said indignantly, 'I'm not as virginal as that.'

Simon remarked halfway thro' the first half, that he'd had Martyn Hill in a sauna at Brighton. Last year?

We went back to his flat, and made scrambled eggs, and I felt whole and inspired. Meeting on Wed.

Sunday September 4 1983

Today was Kevin's Aunt Barbara day. When I say that I called her Barbaric, oh God. I feel fairly sure that she's the rudest woman I've ever met. I don't want to bother to describe the nouveau-riche transatlantic insecurities grafted on to a little suburban Liverpool girl. One remark may do. During dinner, she said, 'Why are your spectacles so filthy?' She also often accused me of insincerity and affectation. After the seventh protestation of complete sincerity, you begin to sound insincere to yourself. Alas, she was really offensive and really silenced me. Poor K. was so sweet and good with her, and with me in the bar of the hideous Park Lane Hotel, while she was changing, was adorable beyond description. 'Sometimes I hate you, but then if I didn't hate you, I wouldn't love you so much.' And again, 'I feel so guilty.' He must have felt horrid to think that she was his blood. That monster! And to think, he brought her to me for all that time, in perfect trust.

Monday September 5 1983

To Phil Lawrence for dinner. To my great surprise, a sweet giggly soft funny evening. Looked at his new place, share of the expenses, house rebuilt round him, but still... Looked at photos, and played a lot of lovely music, of all sorts. And he gave me two snaps of K. with MYO in Germany in 1977 or 8. Lovely. Forgot to record that K. inquired of his father what the facts were about Aunt Barbara's husband, was he the owner of a Canadian TV Co.? No, he was a stockbroker, who had once been involved in a documentary about the Red Cross.

And. - his haircut was hopeless. Un-cut and only a tidy-up. We start again.

He wanted an evening with Ann. We have it on Thursday.

Wednesday September 7 1983

To Simon's. Some excellent talk of Nicolson. I think I see my way to the second Act and the pattern of the whole. He had some really good ideas. A makeshift lunch with squid as a starter, and some slightly desiccated various Italian sausage-meat after.

In the evening with Crispin Redman to 'Cowardice' a play by Ian McK's boyfriend. Ian M. and Janet Suzman surprisingly clumsy in the mock-Coward exchanges. I don't think they missed all those easy laughs on purpose. Her timing is too unmistakably bad for that. Kevin seemed quite to have enjoyed it, possibly because Aunt B. didn't! We left at the interval. C.R. is a dear, a diffident dear but a dear.

How differently the play must have appeared to K., with its constant Coward references he wouldn't catch.

Thursday September 8 1983

A red-letter night. K. and Ann came to dinner. He arrived about six - I'd had my bath. We had good talk - I said he must keep my £500 to get a car, until he'd really made enough to buy one. I said again that, if he ever needed me, I would put off anything to come to him.

She arrived, the pretty thing, and the evening was sheer delight from start to finish. She is so sweet-natured and humble and questing, and they were so lovely to look at. K. was looking his v. best, whether because of a hormonal response to Ann, or some early nights, his skin was smooth and clear, no bags. I was proud of his handsomeness. She is of course, beautiful.

Oh those wide eyes. He spoke of his dreams for music, she of her fears of the electronic revolution, he calming them down. 'You can turn the machines off', he said.

Surely surely, two such gentle intelligent beautiful gifted creatures must survive and help the world.

Friday September 9 1983

The moment they'd gone - Ann drove K home - utter restless despair engulfed me. It has lasted all today and I cannot - I don't know what I don’t want to do.

I must tell K. I can't go on like this without him.

Ann told me he talked about me all the way home.

Saturday September 10 1983

It went on. I rang K. - he was dealing with Mindy Allan Jones, a songwriter girl from M'chester, sensibly, I think. 'You get it 30 per cent right, but it has to be 100 per c. and take singing lessons.' I rang when I got back from walking out of the Meaning of Life - oh dear, so ponderous and amateurish, and the man being sick drove me out of the cinema, as, I was afraid I'd be sick.

That helped my despair. Rang K. I tried to hide it, but he noticed. 'I'll come round.' 'But you're working.' 'I'll come round.'

So he did. I told him everything I feel. And he took it. He didn't think it weakness as I was afraid he would. I told him it all.

He told me CBS want to see them on Monday. I pray it's a success with them, but am nervous of the big league for him. I'm not sure I like him to work with Simon Lee much, but at least K. is aware he's a manipulator, having seen thro' him once. He also played me the song he'd written with Amy Thing, 'All our lives we toe the line', (Actually K. spelt it 'tow', but there you are.) that's a perfectly good idea, but buggered up by letting Amy in on it. One of her lines is 'using borrowed time'. Really, that's a cliché even politicians have abandoned. The moment he'd finished singing it, I could tell he thought the same as I did. I told him, he threw the cushion at me. 'Bloody hell, you're always right.' I read him a little lecture on his artistic integrity, that in any artistic matter, his instinct is going to be right, as opposed to almost everyone else. I must say that to him again.

But the central part of the evening was my exposure of my despair and misery. He took it, he really took it, and gave me back tender enduring thorough true love.

I am after all, incredibly lucky.

Sunday September 11 1983

Philip D. came round to lunch, and we had a mild quiet snooze after lunch. Later we got into the car and drove to see, at last, Linley Sambourne House in Stamford Terrace. My ideal house, as I knew it would be. Rich textured, full. Then to the sculpture exhib. at the Serpentine Gallery, - rather fun. A life-sized camel, a wooden toy really, with spikes on its saddle, ready for fakir immolation. A lovely pig, and a chubby-bottomed hyena. P. left at about 6.30 to see Damien, back from Florida and Disneyland.

Once he'd gone, it wasn't good. I'd left my reading spectacles somewhere, and my umbrella in his car. The television set wasn't working properly. I kept hoping he would ring, and despising myself for expecting him to after yesterday.

Monday September 12 1983

Mornings are bad, so are afternoons. However, he rang at 1.15, after I'd woken him up at 12.0! He read me a long statement he wrote in bed last night. It included so many things. I'll summarise them when I've read it. But one passage moved me much - because it described what he wants to give the world. And it's so much. Oh, my life can't be wasted and empty if he's in it. I must get some work - for him.

To 'The Madness' at the Upstream. I was impressed by Kenneth. Yes, there was a certain sentimentality, and mannerisms like wrinkling his face up, and setting his lips. But there was a great deal of power, and a lot of variety. I followed the story most clearly, and felt the evening to be exciting. Even with only thirty or so people there. He is better than he was, decidedly, and I am beginning to believe that he will be a leading actor. Especially as he got a bit drunk, and was very jolly at dinner after. Mark Hadfield was there as limp and quiet as ever, as he was when he came to look round Manchuria Rd. with his father! And lo, at first he was on the telephone to his father. I've never known really what being father-ridden means. We all know what being mother-ridden means.

K. also told me that someone called Simon Waldron wants him to meet a Russian Composer for some reason or other on Wed. Also Andrew Price, - he's a MU or publisher, isn't he? - suggested blackballing Bob Dicks. Right, if it's a practical proposition. I'll ask Patricia.

I don't know how I could forget to record that on Sat. he was lit up with excitement. He'd remet a fellow student, Andrew Sycamore now at Oxford, obviously stimulating, in many ways, but - he has unlimited access to a Fairlight, the Rolls-Royce of synthesisers, so big and wide-ranging and powerful that it is a whole different possibility. And Oxford is in easy striking distance of B'minton. I tried to be pleased and I was, but it is so difficult in my present state to think of him being away for long. Of course I couldn't stop him, nor, of course, would I, but I dread it.

Oh, how I despise myself when I feel jealous of those I love. Simon, and even K. seem to have endless projects to distract them. You can only talk about disappointment for so long. He wants to meet the American song-writer. ‘After ten minutes with her and you, I'll know whether she's a phoney.' Then he wonders why I don't want him to leave me.

ANGUS MACKAY DIARY NO. 49

Sept. 13 '83 - Dec. 6. '83.

Tuesday September 13 1983 Wednesday September 14 1983

Edna's 81st b'day. Rang her. She seemed all right. I've rung her more lately, - a comfort. At five to K. He's had another hair cut, this time by a free-lance girl called Lee Andrews who also cuts Spandau Ballet's hair. Most successful. As before, but a fair deal shorter, - more like short back and sides - and much better cut. He said plaintively, 'I look about sixteen.' He did. He prepared me for Amy Hobish by playing the song they'd written. He looked at me when it had finished. 'It isn't any better', I said. (He'd put her voice on to it.) He pushed a piece of music paper into my hand, on which he'd written, 'It does not say anything. A pile of unthoughtful bullshit.' I'm not quite clear why he'd written it, but it was certainly true.

She arrived a determinedly dowdy little thing, in combat clothes and no make-up. Superficially pleasant, actually a great big clamping small-minded bore. I am afraid I moved in for the kill, and drove her away by about the end of dinner. I was perhaps unnecessarily hard, but I was so determined, while I had the chance, to drive at least one eighth-rate person out of his life.

After she'd gone, he came back to the table put his head in his hands, and for the first time had a little weep. Not that he thought I'd been wrong, - he was just in shock. We talked it all through. He also talked at length about his state of mind - all in turmoil with new insight breaking in all the time. I fear his lack of general culture is being borne in on him, among many other things. We sat up still 3.30. I stayed the night. Soon I must sleep in his bed like all his other friends, so as to get used to it. We're sure to have to sooner or later. Better sooner.

This is the sentence in his 'testament' that moved me. 'I wish to pass on my torch, my light, my flame of hope that dwells within my innermost soul. That feeling that I find difficult to express in words on paper alone. The feeling that would encompass my talents as composer, musician and maybe songwriter to the best of their abilities and pass them down the line with love and hope that others may follow my way.'

Wonderful generous boy. In the morning, the new owner of the flat upstairs was having gas troubles, very reminiscent!, which I dealt with. K. appeared at his bedroom door naked. I sent him back to bed. How beautiful he looks naked, that long thin delicate shape. How any woman can resist him, I don't know, but one has. The neighbour had pushed under the door a card from Lin! When opened, it was a teddy bear with a lot of leather bound books. Inside it said, 'I'm sorry. I'm slipping out of your life as mysteriously as I slipped into it. I'm upset and confused, and hope that one day I shall have a chance to explain and apologise. Who knows what the future may hold?'

Even then the messy idiot has to leave a loophole to come back. I said, 'She’s just taken to writing provocative cards again'.

I fear she is what I gave her the benefit of the doubt of not being. He sat disconsolate for a bit, but I don't think he's been badly hit. He never mentioned her again after that initial chat. After a few 'phone calls, we had scrambled egg he cooked, very good, and went off to pick up his diary which he'd left at a friend's house again. The house was at King's Langley, but happily the friend, Andrew Price in the LSO, left it at the BBC at St. John's Wood. Then we taxid to my opticians, to see about some new frames. K. had said I must change my heavy old ones. I was as ever taken unawares by his concern and the trouble he took. We were there almost half an hour, and tried on almost every pair in the shop. 'Don't keep looking in the mirror. It's me who has to look at them.' Pleased with what we got. In some trepidation I took him to the V & A to see my suit. Of course he was touched and took it all in. But I was completely unprepared for what followed. He went over every case in detail - he was exited and fascinated and deeply interested, and wanted to wear everything. We were there for 3/4 of an hour. We walked out thro' the hall of the Raphael cartoons. He was knocked flying. I watched him moving from one to the other, for the next half hour, moved almost beyond bearing myself.

Another fantasy come true. The furnished room hit him, too. We came back here - he had some tea, and he went on saying the turmoil he's in, and the crisis of confidence he's having. Before he went off to Pimlico to meet a Russian composer, (um!) he held on to me tight and close for a minute or two - and I mean really a minute or two, as if he never wanted to let me go. He'd said on the 'phone to Bob Mason, that he felt as if he had a whole hot-air balloon inside him full of music!

I held him and kissed him and said it was all right ('is it?') and sent him away reluctantly. And wrote him a letter with some love in it, to support him.

Thursday September 15 1983

To Jakes, that used to be Foxtrot Quango before it was Jakes before - to meet Patricia McN. his agent, also Andrew L-W's agent. Handsome well-groomed, my age, sharp, humorous, as kind as you can expect an agent to be, not especially intelligent or perceptive. But at the moment he won't do better. She had no revelations, no especial plans. But she was open with me, and to my gratification, treated me enough as his father to apologise for Lionel. I think she wants the same for him as I do. Thank goodness. We had poached salmon, and a glass of white wine. The double window blew open at one moment, and she said 'Elvira'. We both screamed with laughter. A generation laugh if ever I heard one.

I rang him straightaway. Told him more or less what I've written down. I realised he was in a state. After a bit he said 'Can I ring you back? I'm a bit confused.' Rang back about 3/4 of an hour later. During which time Julian rang to say Ann was interested in doing 'Trelawny' on the radio. I said 'Well then what about The Merry G.?' Never having had any idea she'd stoop. They must be hard up. Ann rang. Lovely talk.

K. rang back and we talked much more. I'm right. He's seeing how much he has ahead of him, his initial youthful bumptiousness and arrogance have faded, and he sees his own ignorance. He even said that on the pop single perhaps he was too big for his boots. Last night the Russian composer (who isn't a composer - he's a journalist, defected) told him the plot of the musical he might write. ‘It was marvelous, but I didn't understand most of it, because I don't know anything about history.' 'Well, neither will the audience.' What's the plot?' 'I can't tell you. It's set in Stalin's office in the 30s.! I don't really think he thought much of any of them. When he told them of his reaction to the Raphael cartoons, they laughed. 'And the music would be Russian folk music, and I don't know anything about it.' He doesn't know quite where he is or who he is.

Later.

To Tales From Hollywood with Philip D. £2 cheap night. Mixed affair. Slow in places, some pretty poor perfs, notably Ian McDiarmid as Brecht and Billie Whitelaw, virtually talentless as ever. Michael Gambon superbly good, convincing me for the first time that he's a leading actor, principally because it's a light comedy lead. The play is pretty light-weight, fairly funny, will do well, with those who will think it important' while to their surprise easily enjoying it. Might take K. to let him see the Olivier in action.

Afterwards (and before) to Philip D's father's flat in Devereax Chbrs. overlooking Fountain Court. Could be v. nice, but unfurnished with all the lovelessness that clearly characterises the family.

Back in bed, first sip of whisky, the 'phone, at 12.45. K. in real distress, the sighs that lead to tears. He is in real confusion, but I don't think he need be. He is mixing up the opening of his mind, which is an odd disorientating process, seeing possibilities - with his lack of work, and failure to judge people well. I think it only needs time, but he will regret bitterly having been a crude roystering musician, because alas he is a natural artist and scholar. And alas he is regretting the lack of reading and knowledge as I knew he would. Here I can help.

I must have some long quiet times with him, and tease out all his worries.

I think, and it went on for nearly an hour, we had the most openly loving conversation ever. We really know how much first we both stand with each other. 'How do you know what to say to help one so much?'

'If you get these feelings of paranoia (as he calls them) again, think of me, think that Angus loves you and values you and thinks you the best friend he's ever had'. 'I do, I do' he murmured.

At the end he asked repeatedly how I was, 'you've been out of work so long.' I wished I'd been with him to hold him a bit, and comfort him more.

Friday September 16 1983 Saturday September 17 1983

To 'A Patriot for Me'. Arranged to meet at Chez Solange wine-bar. On the way found K. outside Wyndham's, reading the notices of 'Little Lies' with John Mills! How very seldom I come on him unawares, as I'm always expecting to see him. We settled down and had chats. Simon arrived in tearing spirits, everything bubbled. And K. took in S. more than ever, with the hypersensitive state he's in. It's very odd but I can never remember the conversation when S. is there, because it's mostly sharp quick fencing on words between us. It's joy to me, and something I now get going more and more with K. I am grateful I can bring him S. And the other way round.

The play was not quite as boring as before, because it was better acted, and modern staging with its suggestion of sets is that much quicker and fluid. It is still, at 3 hrs 20, much too long. One can cut it while one listens. One scene, just where one didn't want it, towards the end of the second half, in a snow-covered cabin, made me feel as if I'd been in Siberia for most of my life. If was sold out with the real middle-class audience who are just up to the drag ball. I daresay half of them didn't know the main character was gay, until he said he was. Joe Seaby got everything that was to be got out of his scene. His physical relaxation is striking. And his looks! Gosh. Real ash blond hair, great blue eyes, wonderful matt ivory skin. Indeed, I worry whether his looks won't hold him back these days. He's perhaps too good-looking. On the other hand, there is a contained power there which may be enough to change the fashion. He's only 20. At supper after, - at L'Escargot - Elena and Aldo gave me such a lovely welcome - he was wry and humorous in very few words. S and I gave another spectacular verbal display. I talked otherwise mainly to Joe and S to K. S. I heard saying he'd take K out the week after next. I'll have more to say about that combined with something else. At the end of dinner, K. murmured, 'Come back with me, eh?' So I did. He's still troubled, and I am always touched that each time he's upset, he always seems to think it's for the last time. I said to him about needing a long quiet time for him gradually to talk it through.

When we went to bed, I said I would sleep in his bed. I wanted to do this to show his it was all right, and I felt it would be a comfort to him to have me there. It was very interesting how he argued, as he put up the small bed. He did not argue as someone who really didn't want me to sleep with him. He went on and on protesting, saying among other revealing things, 'this always happens when I'm between girlfriends.' What always happens? The little bed was made up. I was undressing to get into it, and he was still arguing, not letting it go. With the result that I went into his room, undressed, got into the bed, and told him to get in too. He did. I put my arm round him, he put his head on my shoulder, and we went to sleep. Not before he'd said some fairly wild things, like 'You make me get rid of my girl-friends' or words to that effect. 'Nonsense', I said, 'I didn't make you get rid of Sue or Janet or Lin. I had nothing to do with it.' 'No', he agreed. He also said something about Phil Stereo having asked if we were having it off. 'He remembers my affair with Simon Lee, you see.'

The conclusion I draw from this - the next morning he said that's how he talks under pot, when he's paranoid, um! he'd only had two and has never done it before - is that he isn't even as purely masculine as I thought he was. A really straight young man would simply have said, 'I'd rather you slept here' and gone to bed. Because I was really forceful, he was dominated. So much so, that I honestly believe I could have made love to him as well, if I were such a fool. Or rather, I saw exactly how it happened to him before.

In the morning, he said. 'I feel good.' So did I. I went home about 11.30, after Sarah, an ex-girl- friend arrived. Nice toothy girl. He carried on with her at the same time as Sue at college - 'I sometimes couldn't decide which door to choose.'

He rang up at 1.30 a.m. The news had upset him again, and he and Bob hadn't been able to think of a thing. An hour or so talk, soothing, encouraging, explaining. His ignorance is torturing him. I said we must tackle it together. At the end I said, 'I love you very much.' 'I love you too.'

Monday September 19 1983

He's got the CBS job, or part of the way. He's to write it up some more, have two days in the studio to record him as producer without asking!

I must write up my feelings before, of a certain pain at him perhaps being whisked out of my orbit. And the pain of feeling that contemptible emotion.

Going to him now.

Wednesday September 21 1983

When I got there, he was still in the middle of his talks with the Russian writer. David Waldron was also there, and let us dismiss him at once. Long, tall, thin, nutcracker nose and chin, at once overbearing and cringing, quite prepared to patronise and impress me. Said 'TLS' in elaborate throwaway, obviously would have been quite pleased if someone said 'What's TLS?' Later said cringingly, 'I'd love to write the lyrics.' I think he can be discounted, tho' no doubt will make a good stockbroker. His wife's Russian, that's how he's in it. But Zinoslav? Zinik, he's another matter. Humorous, impish and what charm. Told us the story (sic) of the show. Some very funny ideas, about Przwelaski's Horse for instance, and it is certainly promising enough in tone (and for him) to go a bit further. But the story was utterly shapeless, with no line to hang the incidents on. I would guess there probably won't be alas, because he's got talent - but dramatic talent? I was fascinated that K. got him to tell the story again, still didn't follow it, - no wonder - but if it hadn't been for me saying 'Well, K. would be interested in a synopsis, and seeing where the numbers might go', I'm sure he would have launched on a meeting trying to cope with that confused mass. If Zinik can't make the synopsis clearer, that'll give him the tip to get out.

When they left, he told me all about CBS. At least he didn't say whatever his name is was 'wonderful'. 'He kept talking about the package, the story, the group's name, and so on. He wants me to write two songs and an instrumental piece, and then we have two days in the studio - no producer. It's to see how I am in a studio.' I notice there was little or no mention of Simon Lee. Later on K. talked of getting rid of him, with which I quite agree, tho' in the morning he said he couldn't really, as he owed the whole job to Simon. I said I didn't want them to go half and half with the royalties when it was really all K. Certainly whosit seems to have talked only to K. The studio days are in a month's time - he's now in a state trying to think of an idea, 'once I get the idea, the music will flood out, I know that.' He is not ecstatic, as he would have been a year ago. He is a bit worried. Good. In later discussion he said, at one point that perhaps he shouldn't take my advice, because it was too fine for the modern world. I do wonder! Look at my own career. Well, if I'm too fine, so is he. He pulls me closer every day. Yes, I had the usual jealous fantasy of him being transported into a world where I couldn't follow and he would forget all about me. I despise myself, and work at the getting rid of the thoughts. The awful part would be if I were right not to want him to go into another world because it would be so bad for him. As could easily happen. But sufficient unto the day - I must say again and again.

We had good wild extravagant talk during the evening. I am getting to the stage with him that I got to with D., of swiping either side of the truth, and clearing a space for it. Good. I told him that in his talks about nuclear war he sounded as if he were trying to persuade people that it was inevitable. Is that what he wants? I told him again my views of David Kitchen, and I think convinced him to drop him. And when I saw some publicity shots of Tracie B., which were straight out of 'Penthouse', that, combined with her telling me that she'd got a part in a film about a vicar who gropes young girls, and her not taking my advice about her agent, makes it plain to me that she doesn't really want to alter her career at all. So I think he saw that, and is going to ease her out. If he eases them both out of his life, it'll be because of me. (So I will have got rid of one (potential) girl-friend!) Am I right? Yes, I am. There are plenty of people I haven't and won't get rid of. I like Tracie, but.... He can have an affair with her, remembering she's not a serious artist. Well, not now.

We shared the big bed again, and I actually slept better. He was very cross and snubby and silent all the morning, oh, he does remind me of D., - partly because he was already thinking of the album. He goes into these visions, and must not be disturbed.

We met again at the Purcell Room for Sue Bird's concert. Cancelled. We did feel odd. So went for dinner at Magno's. Nicer for me really, as he had been going to flit home straight after the concert to work. He was all sun and warmth and loving friendship. There can't be another like him, to be an utterly satisfying friend at 22. I started to repeat one or two things from last night and he was, quite rightly, hurt. Partly I forget that he's changed and does hang on every word and remember. Partly that touch of vulgarity, in me that likes repeating pleasure. He said he'd ring tomorrow. Talked so much of my wretched career.

It's awful, he means everything to me now.

Later.

Tomorrow meaning today, - still Wednesday. Very dull rainy day. But less painful than many. Mike Dalton came and put up a new trellis to replace the one blown down in the gale. Mild nice bloke. Only charged £17 for trellis and labour. Prim called and came round to tape her monologue 'for study purposes.'

I wrote a lyric on my 'Pale Copy' idea. He rang up, two or three times, to ask exactly what 'idiosyncratic' meant, also to know whether I'd spoken to David G. yet. And to ask if I was all right. Michael Feast rang up and asked for K. He's written a play and wants K. to write some incidental music. (Apart from anything else, why does nobody ever ring from my past to ask me to do things? Never.)

Much later, M.F. rang again to speak to K. having forgotten this wasn't the no. Sweet, I so understand. 'He had some friends round before, so said ring back in an hour - it's now two hours, so that'll be all right.'

Now I'm expecting K to ring me, as if M.F.'s calls should bring it on. It doesn't matter or mean anything if he doesn't ring. I'm seeing him tomorrow, I was sleeping in his bed on Monday night. We had dinner on Tuesday night. What I wish to register is the utter and complete unreality of possessive love. It has nothing to do with the facts of our relationship. It doesn't alter or confuse or modify or control our friendship.

Or rather - it could. What I really meant to say is it doesn't a or c or m or c the facts.

It remains with me to put him and his love for me and his life before my own pettifogging little mean soul.

Thursday September 22 1983

I've got a job. A script came through the letter-box - one episode of a new comedy series with Richard O'Sullivan, Tim Brooke-Taylor and dear Joan Sanderson. One good scene, with at last some funny lines. It's odd that I don't feel joy to match the pain.

I haven't told him yet. He didn't ring last night, and you see, there may have been people there. He certainly wouldn't want to ring me again, for a third time and an affectionate good night call, in front of Simon L., who may well have stayed the night, as they have a lot of thinking to do. I must get this straight. It is the feeling in the stomach that has no relation to the facts. It is indeed an insult to his ceaseless love and devotion. No-one could have been more thoughtful and abrasive and tender and open and trusting than he has been. My brain tells me that he is a friend and a man in a million.

Monday September 26 1983

We went to 'The Genius' on Thursday, and had a frightful row afterwards. I think it was both our faults, because we were really in perfect agreement. I won't go into it. He spent the night here. I didn't sleep. We had a tearful scene from me the next morning, cleared it up completely.

I had to go to bed at 9.0.

Yesterday on the 'phone he made it clear that I'd been able to get over what I meant and my love. I don't want to go into it any further except to say that it is a further rich layer to our friendship.

Later. To Amanda's and Debbie's with K. He arrived at about 6.15. Over the weekend I'd written half a dozen lyrics! He read them and liked them, and gave me an idea for another. Simon L. has suggested a book to write the album round. He didn't tell me what it was. A sweet evening at Amanda's they'd gone to a lot of trouble. They are darlings. I hope he has an affair with Amanda.

Tuesday September 27 1983

Bit drunk last night. It was lovely going out with him like that. But seeing him in the pink brothel light at A's I suddenly felt he was very thin. And A. mentioned it, too. He said on the 'phone 'Do you know you mention it every time?' I don't. I do ask if he's getting enough to eat! But I really hadn't noticed before that he is a bit gaunt. I fear he misses many meals when he's alone.

The book is The Picture of Dorian Gray? If I'd been asked the first six books Simon L. would have chosen that would have been one of them. I can't imagine K. reading it, let alone using it. Pity he didn't tell me straight away, then we could have gone over it and he could have stopped before S.L. went off to Manchester. His lack of knowledge is certainly a handicap, or would be without me.

Friday Saturday October 1 1983

Thursday we went to Crime and Punishment and came out halfway thro' the second half. Left me quite cold and the music drove K. mad.

After at dinner here, we had another set-to or a bit of one. I feel as if he starts it, but I may be wrong. It was resolved into him saying that I hadn't recommended any books to him, so I gave him two, David Cook's Happy endings and Arnold Bennett's Lilian. Will he read them? 'That's more like it', he said. Of course it's true, as he said, that he's given me music to listen to, and I have, as it were, kept him out of my greatest interest. I was so afraid of him being put off. We had fully made it up by the end of the evening, but I have felt miserable despite that, ever since. My spirits are not helped by Phil Sterio coming to stay with him. That will cut down our privacy, of course, and I have always that feeling that K. gives his confidences to whoever's there. But I must trust him. I must. But I feel panic and misery and an empty weekend.

Later.

What is it? Is it a resentment in him? In me? I am terrified when he rings today, I might finish it all in temper.

Why?

We assured one another it was essential to both of us. I don't understand. It isn't that I love him less. It's more I must think of him, I must.

Later still. 2.30.

He said he would ring about today, which we were spending together, but work and Amanda going round to go through some music, has made it dicey. I quite see that. But I have been sitting waiting for the phone to ring, without being able to do anything else since 12.0, and I know if he doesn't ring, I'll sit till midnight waiting. I feel sick, and very nervous. All the feelings I thought had gone, because the rows have disturbed my certainty. But have they? I don't feel sensible or myself at all - I can't be rational. I can't ring him as I might interrupt him at a vital moment. But I am in torture and I can't stop it.

Is it me feeling beforehand the pain of a split-up? No, I can't bear even to speculate. He's all I've got. It can't stop. It can't.

He would be amazed at all this. I think.

Oh, this is agony. I am tied to the sofa and 'phone, and a ruined evening ahead with nothing to do and nobody to talk to.

I must not quarrel. I must not whine if he does ring. I despise myself. There must be some good in this love.

Monday October 3 1983

I still cannot understand the extent and lack of control of the pain. He rang about 3.0 to say his head was going at a hundred miles an hour, but he was free tonight and he'd ring tonight. Immediately I was all right, away went the sick butterflies and despair. But why were they there? He isn't going to give me up or betray me. I don't understand it, and that's what worries me. I must go on working at it. It may be just being so idle - that hadn't occurred to me!

We met at the cinema, to see David Bowie in Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence. Quite good, but some odd streaks of sentimentality and pomposity. And of course D.B. carries trailing clouds of fame which have little impact for me. K. was much more impressed, and I am loath to crush his excitement by too exact criticism. All the same, I can't lie. But he made a good point that they don't make films like this often now, - that's true, and I forget it. But he did start in an attacking provocative tone, as if he meant to challenge and rile me. Expecting an angry answer. More like last year. During the 'C and P' row, he also kept saying 'Now we're getting to it' whenever I said something critical of him in my rage, almost as if he wanted me to tear into him. I must talk to him about it. We can't have anything unsaid, as least not like that.

Forgot to say he'd played me a new song, ‘Misspent Youth', as good in its own way, as 'Third World Tigers'. And, that, during dinner at Cafe du Jardin - we both had celery soup and supreme de valaille stuffed with spinach and shrimps - I read him again my Preelandra lyric, and when I rang yesterday to welcome Phil S. to London he said he'd set it!! I shan't think of it yet.

I will make it work for life.

Later.

Too happy to write.

Tuesday October 4 1983

Dashed around all day getting ready for the night. They arrived at about seven. Phil S. is solid and sensible and mild and reaches for the truth. Wants to look for a flat 'as soon as possible', so much for my fears. The whole evening was a huge success. K. played me my song. I can't speak of it. He was as he has ever been. Surely no real son could be so warm and funny and loving and proud of me.

Phil has that down to earth common sense that so many of K's acquaintances lack! He more or less demolished Joe Cavanagh, for instance. And upset K. quite badly by revealing that Joe has been down here quite a number of times with Kevin Gould for cocaine parties. I can't but be pleased to have those two put in a poor light to K., tho' I would never say so until I knew them better, my instinct is against both of them. I think Phil is a good thing.

K. is the best thing. How vividly, how more and more vividly, I realise what a position I have in his life. Phil hasn't met his family either. If only I can get him to judge character more surely.

Wednesday October 5 1983

Last night to S'hampton to see David G's football play. No story, poor narrative thrust. Acting reasonable. Production - I don't think he'd caught hold of enough of the things that make football fascinating to people. Fiona drove me down - she'd got a sort of flu. But I do love her. Little Charles toddled straight to me and climbed on my lap. But how quickly small children bore me. I can't imagine playing with one for more than a couple of minutes. Theatre a bit empty for a press night, some nasty gaps. The play finished at 9.40, we had time for a meal, and I was in the house before twelve! She drives fast. She's a reader. Rang K. because D.G. had said 'Have they thought of an idea?' Was surprised they hadn't. Didn't mention Dr. Moreau.

Thursday October 6 1983

Perfect evening. Oh my own dear son.

Sunday October 9 1983

That was the 'Tempest' evening. He had shaved and dressed up, and looked his best. The performance was fairly stock, with some bad perfs, but the play came through. Good. He was moved by it. Chez Solange after. Simon there with Pauline Collins. Joined us and very nearly stayed too long for my precious time with him. He asked Pauline C. if he hadn't seen her on TV! He must get out of that naiveté fairly soon. Pauline is a dear. Exactly what I expected. Apparently she said 'Who is that very handsome young man at the other end of the restaurant?' At another table was Anton Dolin with Evelyn Laye. Imagine K. in the same restaurant with them!

I've now played my song a lot, K. rang to say would I get on with it, as it would be part of the album! He had just referred to that casually, but he meant it. Good gracious. I went out with Simon on Sat. a very boozy evening at Roy's, a gay restaurant in Fulham Rd., where Le Cliché used to be. Fun. I cut my finger on my chair!

So I didn't work on it till today. I rang and said did he want the rhymes back, as he'd altered my lyric a bit. Yes, he did. Did he want the repetitions at the end, or should I write two more choruses. Yes, he did. And no. And shouldn't I rewrite it to tie it up with Doctor Moreau? This is what I suggested instead of Dorian Gray, and he's embraced it. I re-wrote it, listening again and again to the tape, and I think I've fitted the new words fairly well to the music. So we are actually working together. Perhaps I can really write lyrics. I shall suggest I get out a treatment for the album.

To 'Zelig'. A work of mild genius.

Monday October 10 1983

Went over to K and worked on lyric after lunch at workmen's caff. Good work, he likes the lyric. 4 hrs. He's tired and dispirited. I obviously help him, but still tread heavily.

Ralph died. Oh oh. A great soul gone. Had to ring K and say tho' he doesn't know him.

1st item and last on ITN news.

I love Kevin as I never thought I would love anyone again.

Tuesday October 11 1983

Must further note about yesterday, that he still hasn't read 'Moreau', only seven chapters, so far. I don't understand how he hasn't put everything aside. As it was I had to explain why I was writing the lyric the way I was. He also doesn't seem to see he needs to make a treatment of the book to show CBS where the numbers might come. I think I'd better roughly do it, if only to stop that drip Simon Lee from doing it all wrong and it being too late to change it.

But it was so keenly satisfying to work with him that I did not dare to let myself feel the pleasure. He said the lyric was really original. But he was depressed by the end, I think, that the music was no longer right for the changed lyric. He's going to put my lyric in as his work. Good. Even more fantastic trust, as well as the Moreau suggestion. But I still don't know whether I really want him to get it or not!

He's also been asked to produce another single! One of the band came round, just as I started to read my lyric. A big punch-drunk half-caste. Quite pleasant, but that, combined with K. still having a headache from hearing the group the night before! He is also quite patently persuading himself that they are better than they really are! Phil S. has said K. shouldn't waste his time with them! At least this time Patricia is on to it now. So perhaps he'll get a fee and expenses at least. Poor little boy.

I've never recorded, by the way, that he did a paper round as a boy, and learnt touch typing.

Later. He rang to say that he wouldn't come to the Bush, because of his work. But Phil could come. Interesting. How devastated I could have been. But because I so much want him to get on with Moreau, I don't mind, in fact, I'm glad. This is not to say that it didn't straight-away take all the spring and joy out of my getting the dinner ready. Even I didn't realise how entirely I was doing it all for him. Suggested doing the treatment of Moreau, 'If you would be prepared to give that time.' Silly boy. To work with him.

Wednesday October 12 1983

Delightful evening with Phil. Play so-so, but the black cast gave it a great deal of go so I wasn't exactly bored.

Phil is a lovely companion, relaxed and easy. He is concerned for K., and that is comforting to one. My only criticism is that he is apt to make judgments from insufficient evidence. For instance, when I told him K. had been a bit depressed at the end of our session, when he played the number after we'd altered it, he said, 'Ah, that was probably because of the different music I've been getting him into.' It may be, but I think it was more that the no. seemed so different, and the music no longer matched it. Only other crumpled rose-leaf was him saying he thought K should go into the record business. I wonder. I don't think K. can bear it. If he can bear me, can he bear the record business as well?! But otherwise it was a very pleasant time. He said he felt bad about pushing himself on K. I was able to squash that.

I made myself ring him tonight. Long satisfying talk. And why not?

I am such a creep.

He has perfect confidence in me, and I should have in him. And I have, I have. At any rate I love him completely.

The talk was completely open, two minds together.

Thursday October 13 1983

During the talk, he did confirm that Phil's opinion had been right. It is the music they've been playing together. And, yes, it does worry me that he is so easily and so quickly swayed - at bit. Now he's going down to Badminton for the day on Friday to get his drum kit! Tho' he has said quite often that he never wants to perform or play the drums again. I said he was weak as water. 'I'm not, am I?' Well, I said 'I don't like you to be too much influenced, or one is turned aside from what one is actually doing and the effect is blurred, neither one thing nor the other.’ Not to mention that can he waste a day at this point, and yet not come out on Tuesday! He said he had no confidence now in his music. Good, isn't that just what I wanted?

Phil is a good true man, but with less talent in his body than K. has in his etc. General talent, I mean. I cannot believe that a musician's life would satisfy K. in the end. 'Musician' in the sense that Phil is a musician. I think Phil's advice is nothing but well-intentioned, but of the 'come-on- in-the-water's-lovely' variety. If I see that the record bus. and performing is right, of course I will support him.

I still feel that, for all my difficulties, I love him more unselfishly than anyone else in his life. It surprises even me how profoundly and completely I love him.

He did say that he was keeping in proportion the 'different' music Phil had been playing with him.

Friday October 14 1983

In some ways, I think my worst vulgarity is being 'jealous' of him being somewhere that I know nothing about. While often, I am somewhere he knows nothing about, and I never think of that.

After rehearsal - I got off at eleven - I went home for lunch, after a trip to Dillon's for Moreau, no luck - and then to Ks about two-fifteen. I must just have missed them, as they didn't leave for Badminton till 2.0. I settled down and roughed out a shape for the album. I reckon 16 mins of songs, 4 of story. I only had three hours so it's very rough, but perhaps it'll serve as a basis for discussion. It would be so wonderful to work with him, but I can't believe it.

Off to dinner in the evening with Ken Branagh. His gleaming blond hair is his best physical feature - it has blonder streaks on blond, exactly as people have done in the hair-dressers. He is a very good and generous host, - 'let's have another bottle of this' - 'this' was Meursault. We went to the English Garden, in Lincoln St. (Memo, after Royal Court.) Used to be Pere Nico, and the back of 43, Draycott Place looks down on it! He still talks a bit pompously, but is getting out of it. How he keeps superstitiously saying the play may not be a success. Pity David William, tho' so intelligent and perceptive, is so decisively a director of the second class. And combined with Julian Mitchell...! I rather dread it. Still I'm going with K.

Rang him when I got back, and read him John G's lovely letter. They'd just got in about five to twelve! Lovely talk. Said he'd ring tomorrow about the weekend.

Saturday October 15 1983

No rehearsal today. I had a perfectly tranquil entirely happy morning. But it's three o'clock, and he hasn't rung, and my stomach started churning. I was so looking forward to the weekend, and so on and so on and so on.

However, there is a little more reality in it than usual, as he certainly ought to ring to comment on the album treatment!

It's now four, and I am still idiotically tied to this sofa, having missed the film I was going to. I literally try to help it and can't.

It's now five o'clock. It's, I suppose, that I cannot lose a chance of seeing him, and on such an important issue. And the nerves are real to this extent, that he can make me so terribly unhappy or happy. I think one of the elements I hate most, is the childish nastiness that rises in me, to say, when he eventually does ring 'Oh, sorry, I've arranged nothing else, as you didn't ring.' could there be a more perfect example of 'cutting off your nose to spite your face'?

No, I shan't tick off ever hour, but it's six now.

Friday October 21 1983

He did ring up eventually to say that he didn't want to work, as there was too much to do on the music. So crash went the weekend. No fault of his except that he let me know too late. But the despair that came over me, was indescribable. The cause was certainly being alone and without him, but it was still the main despair coming back - not specially, I mean, him.

It was a dead despair. I sat for hours not moving, not crying, not thinking. Just feeling sick thorough pain. Simon rang on Sunday. I told him. He insisted I went round and it was soothing for a little. Except that he was having a play-reading of a gay play in rhyming couplets. About fifteen people arrived. Nightmare. A part I could have read very well was read by a terrible tense queen, and I had to read a Northern father. By the 'interval' I was feeling ghastly and left. I can't describe that night. K. had been sweet on the 'phone, by the way, but of course I lay and imagined he was against me.

In the morning I rang him (despite having composed many letters finishing our friendship forever) to say I'd call round for ten mins with my photos. So the next day after rehearsal I did. He was perfect, really going into it and looking really intently at each photo. and choosing really seriously. Simon Lee was there, with his pouting girlish features and hennad hair, 'working' with him. The difference was astounding. K., though utterly concentrating on my photos for the half hour I was there, was taut with concentration on his music. Simon L was sitting there quite slack, quite relaxed, obviously quite contented, even preferring me to stay for the whole afternoon. (K. told me last night that that's what it was like all thro' and that he hadn't written a number at all! So K. would have to 'jam' one, i.e. improvise one in the studio.

What is the use of that? K. owes the chance to S.L. but he must be quietly eased out. As I left on Tuesday, I said ring on Wed night and we can wish each other good luck. (I was in LWT studio yesterday) He didn't. More depression. I had a good day in the studio, diversified by being let off about 11.0, till 3.0. I went into the West End, and met - Joyce, darling Joyce. We lunched together, and fell into our old friendship. Alas, Jeremy has obviously divided her from many of her old friends, me and John, for instance. But it was inspiriting, - she understands what I say, and I do suffer from a lack of that.

When I got in after the TV, about 10.30, he rang! Such a blessing, as that's such a low point. And, of course, all my pain passed away, as if it had never been, and I felt ashamed. For instance, he hadn't rung on Wed night, because they'd rung to cancel the studio sessions. The studio was wanted for a name band, who were paying, and I suppose such sessions as K's are put in on empty days, so it's next week, - perhaps as well in view of S.L. But how awful for him when he'd worked up to it so hard. He said he just threw down the score and went out. Got to bed at 3.0 and slept till 6.0 in the evening!

The despair this time was terrifying. Am I ill?

Oh, I copied out his new lyric the other day -

I recall my first blue jeans Were a kind of blue Straight legged with scarlet seams, Stood out in the dole queue Mum and Dad didn't understand You look like Mall Wall All I want is to play in a band For the Christmas ball.

Mis-spent Youth So what are you doing to do with your hair Mis-spent Youth, So you think dreams are made from the jeans you wear You better get down to some work, you lazy child

I recall my first paper round Special job in the hospital Selling cigarettes and papers To the geriatric patients Mary was the first every morning 40 Woodbines would see her thro' One morning the bed was empty There was nothing I could do.

Then I found music, The school drum kit A handful of records a bagful of sticks, Making groovy sounds,

I got my kicks. Staying on after school every night Forgot my homework.

Monday October 24 1983

An extraordinary weekend. He rang to say come round at ten, no, eleven, on Saturday. I went. We chatted and lunched with dear sunny undemanding Phil. I read him the synopsis - he said I must come and read in the items in the studio. Simon Lee arrived. He's hopeless. Sulky and overbearing and feeble and weak. When he arrived, K. was in the music-room, setting a lyric of Phil's and didn't come out to engage in the elaborate strategy we'd decided on to break to Simon L that I'd written two lyrics and a synopsis. It turned out that he'd never intended to write a lyric - 'oh, I can't write lyrics', as if I'd committed a solecism, and when K. came in, and asked about narration, it turned out he'd done nothing about that either. So K. and I sat and talked to him, and he posed and threw away heavily and snubbed and quenched and deadened the whole thing. He is a reason for uncreativity in others!

He left with us, on our way to the National perhaps to see 'Tales from Hollywood'. We didn't try very hard 'cos I'd rung the Nat. they knew nothing about the seats - I reckoned Simon had for once forgot, in the middle of his previews. As it was, I was glad. We went to the Cafe du Jardin. We got it all straight. And what followed, I think, has made a real difference. 'I am changing, I am changing, I am new.' I'd fixed it that I was staying, and in his bed. 'Never mention to Phil I told you that.' We went back, he fiddled about with the synth., laying down one or two tracks of the instrumental piece, - I wrote the lyric that will be the last on the album. I write that quite calmly, and wonder what I'm doing! I wrote a whole elaborate lyric, that he was really impressed by. Phil came back, we had jolly chats. Roger thing was there, too, staying the night for the CND march. Roger thing from K's first descent on me, a dear tall mild boy, no doubt a bit slow and might be boring at length, but will be a solid person in K's life if he stays in it.

Sunday was a strange and moving day. After Phil had gone off to see some musician friends, he settled down to set the new lyric. I first realised that it wasn't going well, when the tryings out of chords got further and further apart. He tried and retried over a period of hours and in the end he had a really bad crisis of nerves, backing into a corner, and saying, 'I'm really frightened.' He said things like 'I'm only using the white notes', 'I'm only using sevenths and ninths (or something).' He did actually believe he was finished. We went for a walk in the park - on the doorstep he said, 'It's all right, something's coming.' But it didn't. I remained maddeningly calm and reasonable throughout, what else is there to do? In that mood if you encourage him, it's wrong, and if you go further into depression, that's wrong. I explained that (a) creative people have those blocks (b) he's past the first gush and more self-conscious now (c) it may take slog in future, not off the top of the head. At one point I said he just better give up. He slammed out of the house - I went on working on another lyric, amid the smell of the shoulder of lamb cooking. I'd brought a good bit of food (oh, we won't eat all that, 2 loaves - but we did) and of course he had no mind to think of cooking. He came back after about 15 mins - no money and no coat - I said 'Just turn on the hot water, will you, I want a bath.' He smiled a bit. Tried again with a drink. No good. (By the way, I was glad that drugs weren't in it - he hadn't had any. I mean, I realise he has paranoia naturally!! We had dinner, the lamb, some broccoli he'd bought when we were out, and baked potatoes. It ended in a memorable laugh. He gathered up the plates, and as he went to the sink, said, 'There's no sweet, is there?' 'Marie Antoinette' he said, when we'd recovered.

During dinner, he said 'I don't think you realise how deep you've got your claws into me. (That's just the sort of remark he sometimes takes exception to from me, because he doesn't see the lightness.)

After dinner he tried again. No go. I said 'Well, I was going to tell you to say to Simon Lee that the new number wasn't ready, so that you could play it in the studio. Now it'll be true.' He promptly picked a quarrel with me, saying 'You know I can't tell a lie. I go all red, and you, who always tell me 'the truth is everything', and was well on the way to picking a lovely distracting quarrel, when I said so - unforgivably! He stamped off into the bedroom to his desk, to write out an arrangement, and do a lot of nasty things he's been putting off, to go with his misery. Then Phil came back and we had further chats, K. coming back just as usual. In short, he spent the day tearing strips off me and being furious, and then utterly comfortable with me. And we had to sleep together, a very good way of finishing a quarrel. All most interesting and satisfying. He needs to prowl round me. Getting off tempers, right to the length of the chain of our friendship, and come back to exactly the same intimacy and security he started from. An exciting day.

The next morning we got up about 11.30, had brunch, Simon Lee came round to lay down some of the tracks, for Thur and Fri. I was again staggered. To my ear he can't play nearly as well as K., certainly can't begin to play K's music as well as K., or even correctly (Or rather, too correctly, he can't get the feel, the subtle behind-the-beat note, a little grace note, the little variations that can't be written down.) And his attitude to work can be summed up by the telephone call he had in the middle of what was an important session under the pressure of a recording on Thur. He had a long purely social chat about what had happened the night before.

Tuesday October 25 1983

To the 'Relapse' last night. Simon very good in the middle of a desert of witless boring ineptitude. Oh the exits and entrances. William Gaskill the fat slob of a director, was sitting in the bar, where I retired for the second half. He has that suspicious calculating expression common to life and people-hating people. Small cold eyes. Spent the whole play in the bar, - well, he knew what he was in for. I was really angry. I went round and said to S. that I hated it, and I'd ring. So glad I didn't stay, as he rang just now to say that he'd heard 35 times in the bar 'It's a real bummer, but you were good.' Ugh!

Last night rang K. when I got in. It'd been a bad time, and he's realised that S.L. can't play it. Also S.L. has asked to do the narration!! and would ring me tomorrow. I said he certainly won't do either, or made it plain K. should not have let me in for this. 'Be fair, you've never heard him narrate' K. said! I said 'Well, for a start, he's not a 'professional actor'. 'That's a point. But' he said, 'it's a young man speaking.' 'No, it isn't.' I said, 'He's writing about it all years later.' 'Oh, yes.' Another talk later on fixed it all. I wasn't at all cross, it's his inexperience and generosity. 'There must be something for S.L. to do.' SL said that himself. But he has nothing to do because he's done nothing. He was parasitic on K's music, and now on my words. At any point in the last two months he could have written the whole record. K. saw it all when Phil, who had come in by then, and I pointed it out.

Now perhaps he sees the point of me putting in my letter that I would work on the record if it was with him alone. He's ringing today, he says, after plucking up courage to tell SL a bit of the truth. 'I have a lot of trumps.'

Apart from anything else, I love sleeping with him, because, for a few hours, as I turn over and back again, and our knees touch, or I feel his back suddenly, at least I know he's safe. I can feel with my hands that nothing has, or can, hurt him.

Wednesday October 26 1983

Alas, it isn't fixed. I had a jolly evening with Joyce Redman and dear Crispin. She is a warm humorous woman, a little left behind by life, and rubs C. up the wrong way. It was so fascinating watching them say exactly the thing which irritated the other most, a trick God seems to bestow on parents and children. I don't mean it came to anything nasty, but it needs resolving. She's just wrong about what he should do theatrically, because she's rather out of touch. But I like her very much. Crispin and I saw her off to the country and we walked back to Gledhow Gardens for whisky (me) and a joint (him). James Wylie came in later, rather drunk. And we had goodish talk. I must admit I do feel godlike with such young actors.

Back home by one, I rang K. It's all as bad as it can be. He hasn't written the new number, and will have to present only one no. and the instrumental no. for the studio days. After four hours, Simon was still insisting on doing the narration! It's quite incredible. I fear it's all going to be a frost. He rang back after though to say S wouldn't do the narration - I said he couldn't have my narration or the book. At one point K. said, 'I wish you liked S.' I said, 'Well, he doesn't know by any sight or sound that I don't. And anyway you don't.' 'No', he said. He's seen even more that S. can't play. I rang up even later to say one thing, 'It won't be a good chance if your music is badly played.'

I fear that I have not been overall impressed by the way K. has tackled all this. First and foremost, he has used the time very badly. He could have got to this bad point at least three weeks ago with time to rethink properly. Imagine how long he took to get round to reading the book. If it comes to that, imagine him rather limply letting me choose the book, and write the lyrics and write the synopsis. All of which I only did because I was getting frightened that nothing was happening. I wonder what would have happened if I'd done nothing.

But for the first time, he has disappointed me professionally. Going into the studio with only two nos and a pianist he despises....

Thursday October 27 1983

It's very mysterious and endlessly absorbing the depth of my love for him. I cannot quite believe myself how much he has become to me. I bring everything - and I mean everything - to the yardstick of his money, his company. I miss him every minute I'm not with him, and enjoy his presence so much I sometimes don't remember anything about it!

More facts. Every time I come downstairs here, I somehow expect him to come out of his room. Although he was only here for four months or so, the whole place is full of him still.

Tuesday November 1 1983

Into the studio on Friday. Weekend. Bad row on Saturday. But still I am in the middle of muddling experience. I find it impossible to match our relationship with anything else that has ever happened to me. Sunday needs to be described. Back still very bad, so no more.

Wednesday November 2 1983

It's odd, we row quite badly and are even closer. The studio day was very pleasant and unbelievable. I recorded some of the narration over the piece of instrumental music. Both it and the song seem to me to show real quality, but of course I couldn't begin to prophesy, either whether CBS will accept it or whether it would succeed thereafter. The chief pleasure for me was being with him, watching him working. I saw him playing his drums - at last. Most satisfactory - the command and exactitude with which he crashed the cymbals. I went off into an empty studio to fit a passage of narration into the music, and did it quite neatly and effectively. At any rate, he and the engineers were impressed, which is all that matters. Simon Lee was useless throughout, only stayed 10 mins with me rehearsing, simply telling me when to start and when to stop. I didn't pay any attention to him.

The oddest thing of all is that I feel nothing at working with him. I think it must be that it is so wonderful, that I am not daring to let myself feel it.

After the row, which came from my genuine frustration of the week and finding he'd forgotten a very boring girl was coming to dinner, depriving us of part of our working-time, - and even more of our precious time alone together. But my expression of it was utterly wrong, and I am much ashamed. I admitted it the next morning. He forgave me, I forgave him, and we had a lovely day!

Although my back was, and still, quite bad, I never seemed to notice, even crawling in and out of that mattress on the floor! I think I am in the middle of something quite new in my life. Think of the swimming, the new young friends, the lyrics, the letting me so completely into his life, not to mention his flat and his bed. There is no parallel but D. I suppose that's why I can't describe it, I've no parallels. I suppose I once had a wife, now I've a son. Few fathers and sons can be closer than we are.

Thursday November 3 1983

Yesterday - well. Fiona Gilmore dropped in to lunch on her way back from an aerobics class in Hammersmith. She had rung me, interesting. I have felt for a little while that there is a faint difficulty between them - I'll leave it at that. Anyway, we had a pleasant gossipy lunch. I played her the tape, feeling it would do nothing but good. She thought well of it and left.

At 6.30 K. rang. I said I thought he was working with Bob. 'I was, but Bob got a call from his agent that they'd had a call from the money-man at Southampton that the musical was off, and so was his Malvinas play.' (It seems Bob never heard till now about the Malvinas play, tho' Fiona mentioned it was probably off, some weeks ago.) K. was of course very upset, finally saying, 'I can't even talk to you about it.' and ringing off. And indeed there's no comfort anywhere. I am very upset, too, at David G's behaviour. I had presented him to K. as someone who would deal straight and he hasn't. It is a beastly way for them to hear of it, especially Bob who has written a couple of things for David before. The last they heard from D.G. was come on the 21st with the new ideas. I feel especially bad as I trained David, and had great influence on him. I bet you any protest I made to him would be interpreted as pique that he hadn't done the musical. It is all as bad as it can be, and my heart bleeds for that poor boy and yet another betrayal and disappointment. My evening with dear Joe Searby was utterly spoilt. J.S. talked sweetly about it, but of course I had to leave it. All through the evening stabs of pain kept coming back, thinking of my poor little boy so unhappy. Thank goodness Nigel and co. were there - oddly, they were perhaps a help, as he had to keep up for them. I am agonised at the harm it will do to his views of the theatre as a medium, - and to his trust in my judgment. Can there be any extenuating circumstances? Oh, Kevin. What can I do to help him? What can I do to help myself?

Later. Simon came to lunch and was very sympathetic and helpful. Tho' with no solution. Had some company forms to sign! Rushed off at 5 to 2, having mistaken his matinee time! Very sweet hour.

Empty afternoon of pain - in my back, I mean. Crispin arrived on his way to see the Greyhound for a jazz-funk gig he doesn't want to go to, with the wrong sort of cassette for me for tomorrow night. K. rang while he was still here. Said ring back when he's gone. Did. Was watching Top of the Pops. Said he'd ring back at the end. I said I'd have my bath. Did so. So did he. Supportive talk on both sides. Thank goodness he's got Nigel et cie to keep up for. Said 'See you at the weekend.' 'Yes, see you then' in that soft voice that goes straight to my heart because he's so vulnerable. And I think I'm the only protection he has.

Tuesday November 8 1983

Now that another of those weekends is over, my first thought is that I mustn't go there again for a bit. Three in a row is enough for him. Every night in a row isn't enough for me.

He looked at me like a stranger when I arrived, and wasn't very welcoming. So much for dropping in and this was arranged! But it was, I think, much more that he was in a state about what I'd said or done over the Gilmore affair. I satisfied him that I'd been quite rational about it all, and rang Bob M. to prove it. How he hurls his fears against me, and how he feels for other people! He became his sunniest self, and the weekend of the greatest delight. I brought with me the Jane Austen record, as I had warned him I wanted to hear her voice for the first time with him. Dear Phil went out, and I took the chance. I didn't want to burden such a new friend with such a strong emotion.

He put it on, and as he adjusted the record-player, I began to shake. I just pressed my fingers on his shoulder. It began, and she spoke. The voice wasn't strange, didn't come fresh to me, was just her dear familiar beautiful voice. I had meant just to hear the critical comments, as he'd said he wanted to work. But he wanted quite passionately to go on. Phil came in during the second side, and sat down, quiet as a mouse. K. laughed a lot and ahhed a bit. At the end he said some wonderful things. First 'It's the most feminine voice I've ever heard.' Then 'What amazing breath-control.' And, 'A lot of actors must have a sense of the shape of a phrase, or a speech, but Dorothy has the shape of the whole programme in her head.'

'I can see you moving about, and turning to the audience, while D. was still and made them come to her.'

I think he was very impressed by the finish of the whole thing, and the subtlety of the phrasing and so on, and really pleased by, as it were, meeting D. and hearing us so together. I think he got a lot out of it, - indeed he said so.

For the rest, the weekend was lightness and fun and easy friends and good food. On Monday on my way home, I went with Phil to look at some flats - quite nice, some of them. One smelt of some chemical which made me feel sick - I suppose it was that. Had to get out and walk!

K. rang in the eve. to see how I was. David G. rang to clear all up, thank god. It seems the nigger in the woodpile was Bob's agent, not making clear the play was only postponed. Bloody agents.

Today to see Michael Mills about Simon's sit-com and a possible part. Funny worried little man. Lunch with John N, always a secure joy. I am amused he says I am not obsessive about K. any more. What about him and his family? (But oh how careful I have to be - I hated Philip D. for not being K. when he rang up tonight.)

Went to see Prim in her new place, - it's very pleasant and easily run. I was much moved by her at last, after 40 years, being released from the stairs and the shared loo and the bath with a lid in the kitchen and the association of the old flat. She has a pretty balcony and a life and said, 'Do you realise I can now go to the loo without getting dressed?' She was a bit under the influence, but sweet.

Forgot to record that the boring girl last week, who is some sort of an actress, had said that she knew a stockbroker in the city, who wanted to put on a musical and had 'unlimited money.' !! She brings him round to see K. tonight. I think K is learning! Anyway, I'm here.

No son could have shown more tenderness and kindness and perceptiveness than he did this weekend.

Wednesday November 9 1983

He also said he'd learnt a lot about words and speech, and cited a line in Are We Not Men - the way he'd sung it, I mean, Phil also said he'd learnt a lot about the possibilities of speech already.

I rang him after lunch. More horror. Bob has said he can't find any inspiration for The Plastic Mac and wants to abandon it. I said straight away we'd do it together if Bob would let us have the plot. He said don't put ideas like that in my head. I suppose he felt disloyal, as Bob was coming round and K would try to persuade him to carry on. Yes, but don't let's be left with nothing, so the sooner the better....

Later.

Paul Ryan and his flatmate, John Henson, came round for dinner. Egg still all over them and goodness knows whether there's much talent there. A bit of a stop-start evening, enlivened at the beginning by Roy M. turning up, hot from an interview with David Puttnam no less, who has commissioned him to do a screenplay, the football one. Fancy.

Gave John H. new audition speeches, Troilus and Hotspur. Betrayal and total Eclipse. He's tall, blondish, goodish-looking. If he's any talents his looks will help.

Was hoping K. would 'phone to give further news. No doubt nothing had happened, as so often, but his imagination fails in not seeing that I need to know that nothing happened, - especially as both CBS and Bob's affair might affect me professionally. Though my secret feeling is that neither will include me - it's too good to be true.

But mainly I am so sorry for him. Why didn't Bob M. mention this before, such as during the fuss? 'I do not know why he should have all this bad luck, with play after plan collapsing under him. I want to be all in all to him, but not like this. Poor boy, I must show my love more carefully and yet more fully than ever.

Thursday November 10 1983

Met K. at the pub by the Palace. In one of his up masterful moods! Talked a great deal about Bob M. He doesn't understand at all why he's given up. 'He kept not looking at me.' Bob has agreed to work all next week trying to get another plot together, staying all the time if necessary. It's 'The Plastic Mac' that's gone sour on him. He apparently hates David G. now, and finds it difficult to work as D.G. wants him to. K. was rather scathing about having to produce a synopsis, 'we've always worked off the top of our heads' - not true, but never mind. K. is nevertheless off Bob in a big way, and feels betrayed, and not at all confident that next week will produce anything. I've never had much opinion of Bob's work, so if they produce nothing, I shan't mind, for the finish of the collaboration. But I don't want him to lose the S'hampton commission.

We went to see 'Dear Anyone' at the Cambridge. Oh dear, we left after the fourth number. It is slickly done but utterly utterly stale, written only from a fascination with American musical theatre - of a few years ago. There were about 100 people there, I agree, so no tension, but Jane Lapotaire gave no sign of having quality as an actress. Like the authors, she seems only interested in passing muster as the lead in an American musical - of a few years ago.

We went straight to Magno's, the clientele are a bit off - we won't go there again. He said would I have Phil to stay for the weekend, as he wanted to get his head together for Bob. And he has had a lot, with me for three weekends as well, - and the boys, he was so good. And I know I shouldn't have done 3 weekends on the trot, but my back was so bad, I was scared to be alone at its worst. And I suppose I was grabbing at him. But I need to tell him everything and hear everything from him, and vice versa. He asked me to have Phil to stay, to help him. Oh I embrace our closeness and friendship. It's wonderful, wonderful it's changing my whole life.

Friday November 11 1983

Rang him about 11.0 to arrange. He was, as he said, up! Obtuse on 'phone, exactly like D. Not clever with it, not liking a yes and no conversation. But utterly calming to me.

1.0.

Even at dead of night - I don't mean now - when I know he thinks I'm asleep - I keep my ear pricked for the 'phone to ring, - oh, I must get out of it.

It's not fair to him.

I want him about all the time.

So that I can look after him and put him on the right path.

But I mustn't.

Saturday November 12 1983

2.30.

Waiting for Phil to arrive! Rang at 12.30 to say it was going to be more like 2.0, as they'd just got up. Oh, and perhaps we could go to Bobby MacFerrin's concert. And Kevin would come too! Oh dear, they are funny. And K. wanted this w/e to himself. Certainly they do encourage one another to stay up too late too often.

Last night took Philip D to dinner, as he moved flats. Plummers. V. pleasant, he was in a very good mood. We got rather drunk, and Peter and Felicity Firth turned up. He's being made a Bishop at the end of the month. He looks ghastly, thin and old and ill. Julian tells me he caught a bug going over the Andes. Perhaps it's that and not mortal disease, which is what it looks like.

Yes, the only sneaking worry I have is, whether he has real self-discipline for real continuous work. But of course he's only 22.

3.0. Ha, ha. What has Phil been doing since 12.30? He said he'd want lunch, couldn't he get straight in the car? Funny little things.

3.25. a.m.

Rebuked as usual. His car overheated and he had to stop half an hour on Westway.

Off to Lynda's, baby cried badly, otherwise lovely. John and Simon and Shelley there. Phil loved them all. Off to dinner at Cafe du Jardin. And then Bobby McFerrin at the D of Y. Extraordinary virtuoso perf. How did he do it? Imitate all the instrum and percuss his chest - never cough. I was riveted.

And dear kind mild gentle sane Phil. I love him. And thro' all our talk, I am humbled and shamed that all my questioning and telling only reveals K. as I know him and noone else does. Phil said, 'I think your relationship is miraculous.'

That's true. How do I dare not to believe him?

Oh my own dear son.

Monday November 15 1983

Sunday was a friendly day. We got up late, of course, and after lunch started off in the car to flat-hunt. Alas, it heated up again, and was at danger-point within 5 minutes. Called at a garage with two black mechanics, one with dreadlocks, - and they seemed to think they could do something tomorrow. So we walked round bits of Shepherd's bush, and noted agents' numbers. Back home we chatted and played tapes. I started the dinner, and K. rang. Very sweet and perhaps a bit lonely. Of course the evening was ruined for me for a time - the sharp reminder that he was 20 mins away and could be here, having the joint and gravy instead of Phil, whom I hated for a bit. Then I reminded myself that he'd asked me to give him that freedom and that made me feel better. And I really like Phil for himself and find him comforting. Only one bad moment, thinking K. hadn't told me something important when Phil said he thought Bob and K were going to write some pop songs, because that's how Bob got going, just writing, as at Badminton. 'For CBS?' I said 'so that's why K. hasn't said anything to me about it.' 'Oh, no, I don't think so' said P. mildly, 'It's just that it might be easier to get going like that.' Also when P. talked to K. during the 'phone call, he told P. that Sarah-Jane, that silly composer? from the Guy Fawkes party was coming round tomorrow night. All he told me was that she was a wanker. Why ask a wanker round? (I don't mean that he was concealing from me he was asking her round!)

All the same, I am ashamed of being so vulnerable to suspicions of deception. Later I took back the CBS remark, and told Phil that K. had never lied to me, 'Oh, no.' said Phil, 'I don't think he could, to you.'

Later we went to the riverside pub - god, it's dreary, and closes at 10.30. But I sort of enjoyed it. Played the fruit machine - was quite surprised Phil was a bit disapproving of 'gambling.'! and put on some juke-box records. He was taken with the river front.

The next morning we went to look at a terrible flat in Comeragh Red.! Awful, in a porticoed house that was a slum. I hurried back to get ready for Paul Ryan and John Henson. They're like puppies - correction Paul is a puppy. J.H. is more knowing - I think he's a bit corrupt - looks more than nineteen. Can’t quite make out how corrupt he is! Took them to The Jungle Book - lovely - and Cafe Des Amis. Bit bored over meal when I wasn't abstracted and sad. Sad? During lunch K. rang to say that Bob hadn't turned up. He was sitting there screwing a show out of his brain. Asked me why I'd been turned off by his telling the story of the Miner's Wife. 'Too long' I said. Gave him a few examples of a plot in two sentences. He was very down. Of course. And so was I. Phil said 'I'll get back and cheer him up. He's been alone too much. We're going to Ronnie Scott's.' They didn't. They went to a terrible gig at the Oval! with his cold!

I had written a letter about the w/e, and added another page to say what agony I was in, too. And - describing Phil etc. but mainly asking to be kept in touch 'not left in limbo till Friday', I think it was a good letter.

When I got in about eleven, I rang. Engaged. For quite a time. Speculated. Turned out a coat had fallen on the 'phone! Bob hadn't got in touch and had obviously taken the phone off the hook - no coat! And he had a terrible stuffy cold! Lovely talk all the same. Phil talked about flats and K. K. came back to say good night a lot. I said I'd ring tomorrow and come round on Wed. whether he wanted me to or not. That's the way.

Tuesday November 15 1983

To Charles Duff for lunch. As he said, a student flat. Quite primitive, furnished from sets! Lancashire hot-pot, which was - why unexpectedly? delicious, and good but sad and nostalgic talk. What could he direct? Except a delightful period revival. Where? He'd better go to a very small rep. He was satiric about Harriet Cruikshank. Alas, he must face that he is the one retreating.

I walked away, immediately forgot him and plunged into stomach agony over K. Why? Again utterly imaginary. Had to brace myself to ring him, after poor film 'Star Chamber', a thinly disguised plea for lynch law.

Still full of cold, but oh how my whole self turned inside out with joy, and pleasure to talk to him. Bob M. He rang, - has given up entirely, how dare he not ring up himself? Said we'd talk of show. Going out with Phil, bringing lunch and dinner. 'That'll be lovely.' Sarah-Jane didn't come. She's got a cold. 'Don't wurry.' His accent is stronger, because of his cold.

Had a long talk to Phil about Peckham and Rotherhithe.

Why do I ever feel in pain? I mean, this morning there was no reason for it at all. Is it physical? I don't know. But certainly the plain reiteration of his affection wipes it out as if it had never been, and I can move mountains.

Let alone write a musical.

Later.

Let me put it plainly. All through the weekend with Phil, I kept falling over dozens of things that K had told me that Phil didn't know about. And nothing material the other way.

I am a creep of a mess of a creep.

But I do love him. And I do fight being a mess.

Wednesday November 16 1983

It's so good to wake up and know I'm going to see him and give him a bit of comfort.

Friday November 18 1983 a.m. yesterday

A day yesterday of flat-hunting and a heavenly evening alone with him, Phil going off to look at flats again. Managed, I think, to persuade him to go on with the show with me, but when I asked him yesterday to come round this afternoon to star work, he gave me a strange look and said he'd ring me last night. He was going with Phil to look at the flat P and I had seen together. Huge and lovely in Gypsy Hill.

He didn't ring, leaving me as usual in agonies of worry, especially because of the show. Rang him at midnight and rang off at once. Got into bed couldn't sleep, rang him again and was cross. He said he'd come over to lunch. 'Has something else happened?' I said. 'Yes'. Oh god, what now? Not Sarah-Jane, please god, suggested some wanker’s job.

But must record that he set the TV shop lyric I wrote the other day, me changing it considerably in the process at his request, a real collaboration.

Also, as soon as we were alone, he pushed himself into my arms, saying, 'Oh, I'm so glad you're here. He is unhappy, poor boy. He said again and again that he had no confidence in his music, - even his agent's secretary is off hand. Yes, he's been a failure too long for a mere secretary! Phil is on his nerves. He really has only me.

Later.

Took him to 'Cherry Orchard' and to meet Joan after.

Will chart the whole day, and its agonies?

But mainly he was overwhelmed by the play.

My whole heart and soul pour out to that boy, who is my life's blood.

Saturday November 19 1983

Yes, it's worth recording in detail. He must learn to set my mind at rest. I had twelve hours of worry, and all that had happened was an abortive little affair with Sarah-Jane.

He eventually rang at one yesterday to say that he'd gone back to bed and overslept, he'd be here in about 3/4 of an hour. Phil rang to say he'd just left and was sorry! He got here about ten to three, still unshaved and scruffy, but with his clothes for the night in a bag. Over lunch he told me step by step the whole silly little evening. I think I see it clear, but only think. Sarah-Jane is a girl I introduced him to at one of the Guy Fawkes parties because the hostess said she was a composer. They had a chat, and after a bit, it turned out she wasn't really a composer, and worked for an advertising agency on jingles. He was intrigued as to why she'd deceived him, and made a date for her to come round. He'd told me after a phone call that she was a complete wanker. Why waste time on her? Of course if he found her attractive that's another matter but 'not particularly' he said.

Anyway, she arrived on their evening. 'She still wasn't looking at me' and obviously wouldn't be real with him. 'I took her to the pub and it was a bit better, because she was sitting opposite me, and I made her look at me.' Then he did find out a bit more, but wasn't specially interested. On the way back to the flat she asked to crash out on his floor. Phil was there by now, lasted a bit but couldn't bear her and went to bed. About 1.45 K said, 'There're blankets and a pillow if you want them in here, but I've got a big double-bed and it'd be more comfortable for you to have one half and me to have the other.'

Now K. (and I believe him) had no intention much of fucking her, turned over and said 'Goodnight.' She wouldn't let it rest, and chatted. Silence for some time. Then she lit a cigarette. More chat. And so it went on, with him dozing off. Until at 5.0 in the morning, she started stroking his chest. 'We cuddled a bit. I got an erection. And we started fucking. It was enormous, so I went slowly and after four minutes or so, I was getting into it and quite enjoying it, when she said, 'Oh, I've got cramp.' And that was it. He saw her off in the morning, and I hope that's it, because I think she sounds trouble. But of course the poor boy is so randy after three months. He revealed that Linn did the same that last night, made him take it out. No wonder he feels rejected.

Anyway there he was. Safe for a bit. He put his feet up on the sofa and had a snooze. I had a bath. He had a bath, a shit and a shave. Off we went to see 'The Cherry Orchard' at the Haymarket. Lindsay Anderson prod. Joan Plowright, Joanna David, Frank Finlay, etc.

The production clear, traditional, well-paced. I loved Joan. I don't care. Nobody except the Anya was disappointing. I was moved and never outraged. Joan's entrance and exit in Act V 'I couldn't help it, I couldn't help it' had me howling.

But how can I describe watching K. seeing it for the first time? Feeling the meaning and beauty of the play go through him, and nearly overwhelm him. In the interval alas we met Stewart Hopps and a camp friend who were crabbing it. I knew K. wanted to be silent. We went round. I said 'You don't mind if I tell her it's your first time.' 'I'll tell her.' He did, with his face scarlet and eyes full, and kissed her. We walked away to the restaurant in silence. When we discussed the play, I was amazed that nothing escaped him, he had, in the middle of the emotion the play had given him, judged all the acting right.

There is something great in his soul that responds to great art, a fineness that I knew was there almost before he did. I can't believe that he is a fine judge of acting as well as everything else.

I forgot to record that after lunch he attacked me bitterly for having made a cruel remark about a line of his in front of Phil. It was cruel and thoughtless of me, true. I had meant it jocularly, but forgot again, how literary talk is still strange to him. I was upset, he forgave me.

And lo, I forgot it, too. I said over dinner 'How sensitive we both are, that's what it is. We're still rubbing off the corners. But I have never had a relationship like this except for D. Not even Simon, now.

In my late middle age, I look round warily at this intense happiness; by now you dare it to last. But that it is there, and intense and happiness is wonderfully true. Oh, don't let life take him away from me quite yet, not quite yet.

Sunday November 20 1983

2.0

I didn't record, because it was just too much but it won't be quite yet. He consented to try writing the S'hampton show with me, just as he said 'Write some lyrics with me' the other night.

So unless more things go wrong, I will work with him, and spend much time with him in the process.

It is strange to think that I have been tempted to possess him, but I have resisted that, except for getting one or two horrors out of his life, I do not think I have made any more claim on his life than was best for him. And lo, almost everyone has faded out of his life, most of them betraying him in one way or another. He has no one else any more. How odd. I must be even more vigilant and try harder not to be selfish. I love him most deeply and tenderly, and I am grateful, even for the pain.

And we've had a sort of idea.

Later.

Philip D. rang. I went up to see his new flat, the Archway end of Holloway Red., that now magic thoroughfare. To a bad film, and he came back for a chop. Simon is quite right, he's very restless. Asks a question and doesn't wait for the whole answer. K. rang about 10.30. Still at Phil L's, been back since about seven. Very sweet, 'What's yr weekend been like?' Even now can't say 'We'll start work tomorrow at' - 'I'll ring you tomorrow when I've got my head together'! All we need to do is meet! Must record Gerard's lunch but I'm writing.

Monday November 21 1983

Oh dear, he is a funny boy. Rang about 2.0 very short and sharp, 'got so many things to see to' so not today.' If I didn't know him, I'd think he didn't like me! So that was that, and another terrible empty day. Rang him about tea, in case he didn't. He'd arranged to see Bob on Wednesday, was all he had to say, at first. He put it in such a way that I was really put off. He was really stoned on some stronger stuff Phil had brought. Fuck Phil. However he said 'Come at 11.0 tomorrow.' Later again I rang to say to watch 'Devil's Advocate' young people talking. He rang me after it, as warm as toast. I said about him arranging to see Bob, no, rather, only saying he'd arranged to see Bob, while I was still struggling to pin him down! I said, 'Really, I felt well I'll betray K. and then I'll get an appointment, too.' I think he saw, but I must get this making dates thing settled.

Saturday November 26 1983

An extraordinary week. Mostly work, all K. By about five on Tuesday, we had the first half mapped out in synopsis. Then Bob rang. He was feeling better! And was coming round to write on Wed. We both felt consternation, and depression. Perhaps he'd want to go on with the S'hampton show. I felt terrible, as I'd been in full flow and so so looking forward to it. K. felt probably worse, since me being involved was only on the evidence he'd given of Bob giving up entirely. I found it difficult to be generous and give up my show for Bob's if necessary. In fact I didn't manage it till the next morning. He came to dinner Wed eve. Standing on the doormat, in an overcoat and a blue cap, jumping up and down because he wanted to pee so badly, he said 'I think we've got a musical on our hands.' Bob has given up writing entirely and apparently gave his blessing to K. to try and take over the S'hampton commission. So all was joy. Joe Searby came to dinner, still very stuffed up, going to Ear Nose and Throat Hospital next week! But quite different otherwise. Sat on floor with K. drank! smoked!! smoked pot!!! Good. He's an odder boy than I thought, but possibly more interesting. His parents are lower-class Liverpool, despite his father being a don.

Joe went about 11.30. K. had seen the new bookcase and my diaries. I read him a bit and a bit more and a bit more. He didn't stop me - we were up till 3.45. I hope one day to have literally no scrap of me unknown to him. Next day we worked all afternoon. Synopsis finished. Session taped, so will say no more than our extraordinary close friendship came out in the work. He said 'You are a wonderful writer to work with.'

The night before I'd hugged him and said 'Dear little one'. He said 'Dear big one', and hugged back.

At dinner he was on again about his mother deciding the middle child was to be a girl. I mentioned it, only lightly, and he was quite cross, because of course it is a bit odd, and he knows it. A perfectly straight young man doesn't get interested in such facts, or want to be a transvestite. (Or, by the way, have affairs with only older bigger women, as he has done lately.) I kissed him goodbye, stroked his hair, pulled his ear, and he smacked my hand away. Oh dear, can't I show any tactile affection? I was always wanted Daddy to cuddle me more than he ever did. Rested yesterday. To him today for a working weekend.

Tuesday November 29 1983

Waiting for K for another session.

Weekend a bit horrible. He behaved sloppily over the work. Did little or nothing - we only spent an hour and a half altogether, talking. I wrote two complete lyrics, quite good, I think.

We both felt horrible. I said on the 'phone last night ‘Let's not go back. Let's forgive now.' So I think we have. The blows don't seem to last. I hope, I pray not. It's because he matters that I get cross. Perhaps I should just be firmer sooner. As long as he doesn't start associating me with bad temper... We agreed to work alternate days.

Frightful. Awful. I can't.

Monday December 5 1983

I'm not going over every detail. I tore into him about Keith, because I was angry at him not working. He didn't tell me till Tues. that he'd lost all enthusiasm for the musical until David G. gave the go-ahead. If only he'd told me at the weekend. I meant what I said about Keith, but hate myself for the violence with which I expressed it.

It's all the same thing of course, my love is so strong that it sweeps me away in any emotion. He came round again on Thur. and again left at about six. Still I was feeling cold. However, he rang late on Fri. night, and all is well. But how can I get rid of this feeling of desolation that he's not with me all the time? So that occasionally I get angry with him for not ringing or not being there, at moments when even I don't remotely expect him to, rationally.

How can I cure myself of this, because it is so selfish and might ruin a wonderful relationship?

I love him more if anything.

I don't think he likes the plot and musical at all really.

After all, love should think of the best for the person loved. What rubbish I'm writing.

I made up my mind that I wouldn't ring him this weekend. He said he wanted to work, and took the synopsis. And I don't want to ring and find him not working. Or, just chatting. Or going out looking for flats with Phil.

I've written one of CBS lyrics this morning. Not bad.

While I was at his place last weekend, I found this on a scribbling music pad.

There is a man He smiles at me He plays the game of life with me His love is sure His mind is mine No Goodnight It's nice to know he smiles

I asked him if it was about me, as he was leaving on Tuesday. I think if we'd been more at one, he'd have said more. As it was, he said, 'Probably' and 'even that I couldn't finish.' Of course it's me, and it's true.

But apart from not in fact ringing him, how do you control the ache to ring him all day even Saturday, when we'd talked for 25 mins at 11.30 p.m.? The ache the deprivation is there, and nothing takes it away but him. The writing comes directly from him - that's why Tuesday was such an utterly wretched day and night. 'Don't hate me' he said as he left.

But the sick feeling is not under my control. Nothing, nothing makes up for his presence.

11.50 p.m.

Utter bliss and other idiot expressions of that kind. He rang at 9.0 ish. to say he'd rung in the afternoon, (while I was out buying his pen.) What was I doing tomorrow, would I come round at 12.30? etc. etc.

What was I doing tomorrow? What am I doing every day but just waiting to see him?

And he has been working. He has been working. Why aren't there more words for 'love' and 'more' and 'anything' and 'earth'.

Tuesday December 6 1983

Must describe Friday and Saturday. Still in such leaden despair over K. and our quarrel etc. I asked John Henson, Paul Ryan's chum, to the pictures and a meal. He is an agreeable companion, not specially intelligent or amusing. Perhaps the keynote is that he said 'I find I just can't worry.' Looks a bit battered, tho' only 19, acned skin. Has a ready laugh, and is not conceited. He spoke of another friend, Ben Unwin, staying with them. 'Bring him round.' So they came to dinner on Sat. It was to pass some K. less hours, but Ben is more than that. Long, tall, thin, delightfully self-absorbed, sharp, quite well-informed, perfectly himself and self- possessed, he often made me laugh helplessly at his ceaseless stream of deliciously self-centred observations.

Sunday was a grey dull day, when I tried writing and couldn't. I need him for that. Can I make any more resolutions? Or is it perhaps tempting fate?

Nearly £300 back from the income tax.

Did not record that he asked me, almost formally, to spend Christmas with him.

So today I'm faced with an almost totally golden day - start with some tax back, over to him, work, and Ann to dinner in the evening. And Joanna David to dinner here with him tomorrow night.

I don't think he knows how completely he has changed my life. Or does he?