Must You Go_ - Antonia Fraser [135]
In the thirty-seven days which followed in which Harold heroically did not drink and the house flowed with elderflower wine, I had to keep reminding myself in view of his suffering that he had chosen to do this. ‘In order to live. And with you,’ as he said from time to time. As for me, I sneaked about swigging white wine from a silver goblet which just might contain elderflower wine … I reminded Harold that he had valiantly and successfully given up both whisky and cigarettes in the past.
5 November
O frabjous day! Calloo! Callay! The day that Obama was elected. Spoke about the Gunpowder Plot at the House of Commons, came back and watched TV all night, Harold having gone to sleep. But when Ohio fell, I couldn’t resist waking him and we rejoiced. In triumphalist mood, I point out that it is the United States of America, not England, France or Germany who has democratically elected the first black leader; we must now salute the American Embassy as we pass it, in honour of a great people, not wave fists. Harold goes back to sleep.
9 November
Listened to the Britten War Requiem on Radio 3 (the original Peter Pears/Fischer-Dieskau recording) and as I was just finishing Sebastian Barry’s awesome novel on the same subject A Long, Long Way, I found tears pouring down my face at: ‘I am the enemy you killed, my friend.’ Harold, who did not, I think, notice, wept silently at ‘Let us sleep now’.
11 November
Learned from Jonathan Hoare that Harold has a cancerous tumour on his liver, when in Harold’s presence and with Harold’s permission I question him, to get it straight. Felt in shock. Idiotically told myself: ‘It’s not liver cancer but just a cancerous tumour.’ As if there was a difference! I sat downstairs in the hospital waiting to be picked up to see the Babylon exhibition, of all things, at the British Museum and kept falling asleep. Shock. Jonathan Hoare is hopeful ‘so long as he doesn’t drink’. Harold, faintly but firmly: ‘I’ve no intention of drinking.’
21 November
Harold is so low, so thin, with his sad, searching eyes like a sick Labrador. I pity him so much and keep thinking what I can do to help, not able to face the fact, I suppose, that basically I can do nothing.
28 November
The long-promised lunch at Lucio’s restaurant which Harold gave for Edward, following his investiture at Buckingham Palace, was an enormous success, and at such a crucial moment, immensely warming for me. Superb arrangements, thanks to Lucio. I saw with pleasure that Edward, who had said, ‘No, no, I won’t make a speech, just a few remarks,’ had a thick pile of notes by his plate. Harold rose to his feet and quoted Yeats on Swift: ‘ “He serves human liberty”.’ (Edward would later read that at Harold’s burial.)
30 November
Went to Farm Street Mass and we then gave lunch to Sebastian and Allie Barry, with Dinah Wood, at Scott’s. ‘It’s very nice to meet new people,’ said Harold, a rare remark from him and a direct response to the charm of the Barrys, telling us of their Irish lives; also Harold’s profound admiration for The Secret Scriptures. (I had written in the Guardian the day before commending it: ‘What were the Booker judges thinking about?’ So we were all off to a flying start.) Sebastian Barry told Harold how seeing the 1975 No Man’s Land was the ‘first step’ towards him writing his great play The Steward of Christendom.
17 December
It’s the original ‘good news, bad news’ as I said to Harold in the car outside the Cromwell as we departed. It was a feeble attempt at black humour. The good news is that Harold can drink