Must You Go_ - Antonia Fraser [4]
19 February
Period of crisis. On Sunday Harold called to say that Vivien was very ill (pneumonia) in Hong Kong, with the dreadful possibility of not being able to go on and film Picnic at Hanging Rock in Australia – something she really wanted to do. He is racked with guilt. ‘Something of her own that I didn’t write. That’s what she wanted.’ Much strain of cancellations and late-night calls. Nevertheless we met for drinks in the bar of the Churchill Hotel (twice).
21 February
Bought works about Harold at Foyles to feed my obsession. Seems to be in the class of Shakespeare judging by the nonsense that is talked … gave me a buzz all the same.
22 February
Harold in Hong Kong has written me two poems, one short, one very long, which he read to me twice: ‘I have spent the evening in my hotel room writing poems to you.’ The long one began:
My heart is not a beat away from you
You turn, and touch the light of me.
You smile and I become the man
You loved before, but never knew
It ended:
You turn, and touch the light of me.
You smile, your eyes become my sweetest dream of you.
Oh sweetest love,
My heart is not a beat away from you.
This was the short one:
I know the place
It is true.
Everything we do
Connects the space
Between death and me,
And you.
It subsequently became a favourite poem of Harold’s to mark this stage in our lives and he often recited it. However, when the poems arrived on the pale banana-coloured paper of the Peninsula Hotel, I protested about the comma after ‘me’ which divided us and left him on the side of death and it was eliminated (although not put immediately after ‘death’ as I wanted!).
He really seems mad with love. Diana Phipps, my confidante, on the telephone: ‘What happens when he asks you to pack your bags?’ Me: ‘He won’t. That’s the great thing. He isn’t a marryer. He has been married as long as I have.’ Diana: ‘Don’t count on it.’
In spite of that, thank God, she is wrong. Our relationship is more likely to bust out of passion because he won’t be able to bear it, not at that level anyway. His love letters, leaving aside the poems, are extraordinary. From time to time he writes in his large, clear unmistakeable handwriting: ‘I’m calm. Calm.’ and then he bursts out again, now with a big love letter, now with a poem – an extravagant poem, accompanied by a note: ‘This came out of the lonely middle of a desperate night thousands of miles from you, your image thudding in my skull. Don’t be alarmed by it.’
24 February
Kevin Billington came round, thanks to Hong Kong calls ad infinitum, and we had an extremely intense conversation; beginning of course with much embarrassment as up to that point we were friendly but not close. ‘It’s very serious for Harold,’ he said and added: ‘I speak as Harold’s friend and not because of our family relationship.’ Me: ‘It’s quite different for me … I haven’t known anything like this before or perhaps once years ago but ever since I have tried to guard myself.’ Kevin: ‘I’m very glad.’
25 February
Drink with Edna O’Brien at her request. She looked like a beautiful fortune-teller in her shawl by the fire, me her client. ‘He’s much enraptured,’ she said. Then: ‘I’m glad this is happening to him. Last summer when he was writing No Man’s Land in that cottage I almost thought – well,’ she hesitated. ‘He says he was waiting for death,’ I replied.
28 February
The last call from Hong Kong. No more contact for the next week. But lots of poems have arrived on the banana-coloured hotel paper. I keep them in a clutch in my handbag and read and reread. One of them is the strongest love poem I have ever received.
Harold came back, with Vivien, on 10 March. He was in a terrible state when I didn’t answer my telephone, also when I did. Explained later it was jet lag edging on panic that he had lost me.
11 March
Everything is now all right. But first I went to the Memorial Service for the murdered Ethiopian royal family who had helped me on my