Must You Go_ - Antonia Fraser [106]
If there was no death
How in all the crowds
Would I have met you?
Harold answered it initially but being a real poet was dissatisfied and corrected it in the middle of the night.
You’d find me turning from the long bar
Glasses raised,
One for you, one for me.
11 April
The destruction of the lofty – twenty-five foot – olive tree in the garden is the worst thing that is happening to me emotionally apart from THE thing. The evil, indifferent squirrel bites off vast silver branches evening after evening in front of our appalled eyes, and stripped of leaves or not, they lie pathetically abandoned on the terrace. It stands for absolute helplessness. The tree, the myrtle bush from my wedding bouquet (also stripped), me, we’re all helpless. And the squirrel is energetic, playful and a killer.
16 April
We took a break in Torquay for Harold to try and get some strength back before the op. At lunch in a country pub (Harold’s favourite thing – not that he was able to eat) we argued about a line in W.S. Graham: was it the ‘shining’ sea as I thought, or the ‘silent’ sea as in Harold’s version? Harold is always right about these things which doesn’t stop me gamely arguing. So when at dinner he pronounced, ‘It’s actually the speaking sea,’ it was a touching demonstration of his weakness, that he had forgotten one of his favourite lines.
23 April – St George’s Day
To my amazement Harold had agreed to my idle suggestion as to how to spend the last night before his enormous operation to remove the tumour: ‘Let’s have a party.’ Suddenly it was boiling hot, unbelievably so, and under a convenient full moon, lighting by Mick Hughes as it were, we held the entire party in the garden. The whole wonderful evening was a tribute of affection to Harold. Even Peter Hall and Trevor Nunn came, the busiest people we know, and at prime theatrical time. All the children of course and afterwards Peter Soros, ever practically generous, took us for dinner.
It’s odd how anxiety blinds you to some things, while exposing you to others. It never occurred to me that the reason why all these busy people took the trouble to come was that they feared the end was coming and wanted to say goodbye. I only understood this when Edward blurted it out to me, following the happy outcome: ‘I never thought I would see Harold again.’ I also took a lot of photographs of the scene in the moonlit garden. Much later Harold looked at them and said curiously: ‘Who is that?’ He did not recognize himself with his mysterious Jacobean skull.
25 April
Harold rang me at 7 a.m. before the operation as promised. I had told him, ‘On no account do a Louis XVI on the eve of his execution,’ i.e. fail to call in order to spare me, as Louis XVI, sweet but insensitive to the last, did to poor Marie Antoinette and the children. They just sat there waiting for the promised summons until the roll of the drums from afar told them that the King was dead.
Continued. Well, it’s over and Harold has survived. No roll of drums. This morning (26th) is better than yesterday when I sat all morning trying to read a book about Danish Regiments at the Battle of the Boyne. Then Rebecca thoughtfully offered to come and sit with me. On the dot of three, I rang the Clinical Nurse and she said Harold was OK. Went there at five o’clock. He was still unconscious. I was handed over to Staff Nurse Steve: a very nice man. Sat in the Relatives’ Room, a small octagon. Later I was allowed to give a reverential kiss to this Pietà figure and so some squeezing of the hand; Harold’s eyes opened and he definitely knew me.
Days followed in intensive care with me visiting Harold three times daily. He wanted, he said, the pleasure of looking forward to my arrival. Which he couldn’t do if I just stayed there. As I shuttled to and fro from Campden Hill Square to Chelsea, I took to speculating what happened to people who had no one to visit them: because surely cancer doesn’t spare the lonely. There was a strange period