Memoirs of a Private Man (29 page)

So we managed somehow for a week. Everyone in the hotel was supremely kind. Three sturdy chambermaids gave Jean regular blanket baths; food for her was sent up. The first night, in the middle of the night, she wanted to go to the lavatory. I got a chair and levered her on to it, then dragged it screeching into the bathroom, transferred her and left her there. When I went back she had fainted. I could not lift her but dragged her back along the floor and eventually, somehow, heaving and pulling, I got her back into bed. Her eyes were open and staring; she did not seem to be breathing; I thought she was dead. Then, as the Esbatal-type drug ceased to have its dire effect, the blood came back and her eyes flickered and she smiled up at me. Again it was typical that she should smile.

The next morning I went to buy a bedpan and some knickers. Knowing no Greek and the shopkeepers knowing nothing else, these purchases involved a difficult, even comical, negotiation. Suggestive gestures on my part produced the bedpan at the chemist's fairly soon, but no one in the lingerie shop seemed to have the least idea about knickers. The three pretty girl assistants produced girdles, suspender belts, petticoats, sanitary towels, bikinis. In the end in despair I found a smart fashion magazine and scrabbled through it. On about page 42 a girl stood in elegant underwear. I pointed, and the three girls simultaneously cried ‘A-a-a-h!' and thereupon opened cupboards upon cupboards and produced every kind of the desired object, from flimsy panties to voluminous drawers.

It was very hot in Heraklion and there was no air-conditioning. Apart from reading, and the doctor's assiduous visits, Jean's only occupation was watching the weddings which constantly took place at the church in the square outside. October seemed the fashionable month. After a couple of dismal beach visits on my own, I occupied my time trying to get more money from England (since in 1967 currency restrictions were still in force and my traveller's cheques would not begin to suffice), in returning the hire car, in reading beside her and to her in the bedroom, and in making what preparation I could for a return to England.

Dr Xekardarkis, who, in spite of the hotelier's warning, was proving an efficient and helpful doctor, said he thought it would be safe for Jean to travel in a few more days. The left arm and leg were completely paralysed, but the internal haemorrhage seemed to have stopped. She could just move her hand. Life in the hotel was becoming insupportable.

In those days there was no direct flight from Crete to England: one had to change planes at Athens. In order that she might lie down I booked three seats for her. Then I arranged for an ambulance to meet the plane at Athens and take her to some convenient place where she might await the plane for London. I also arranged for an ambulance to meet us at Heathrow to take us to the University College Hospital, who were warned to expect us. It was five more days to wait.

On the Thursday, the day before we left, the doctor came at midday and said Jean's blood pressure was much better. I paid him, we said friendly goodbyes, I packed, I paid the hotel. We couldn't wait. Then at 5 p.m. BEA telephoned that they would not take us. Their medical officer at Heathrow had decided that it was too soon for Jean to fly. She was, he said, too young to be subjected to the risk.

We shall never know how far this distant medico was concerned for my wife's health and how far concerned not to have an invalid aboard who might be taken ill and cause the flight to be interrupted. I can only say we took it very badly indeed. If a competent Greek doctor who had attended the patient for ten days thought it safe for her to fly, why should a man who had never seen her and was a thousand miles away presume to decide otherwise? We were faced with an indefinite sentence to stay on in this hot foreign hotel in this small Cretan town. I went to see the travel agent and besought her to find us some other way home. She was wonderfully, wonderfully helpful. Although it was closing time she kept the office open and rang here, there and everywhere. Eventually Olympic Airways agreed to take us, but at a very early hour, and then there would be a longer wait in Athens. I hastened back to tell Jean the good news.

Up at five, breakfast at six, the plane left at eight. At Athens, where we arrived at 9.15, there was no ambulance, because the arrangement had been for a later plane. Two porters carried her down the steps of the plane in a blanket, which they used like a hammock. We were deposited in the main concourse, and she lay there for three hours while travellers milled around her.

Through it all, though paralysed, Jean kept her good spirits.

A well-meaning American tourist saw her lying there and came up and said: ‘Aren't you feeling very well, dear?'

She replied: ‘I'm fine, thank you, it's just that I like travelling this way.'

Other problems arose. I got a snack and drink for us both. Then I said:

‘You've got to find somewhere to spend a penny.'

‘I'll be all right,' she said.

‘Nonsense, it's three hours to London even when we're off.' I went in search of somebody who could speak English and found one – a security man, as it happened – and explained the position to him.

‘I will see to this,' he said, and we went together to see the doyenne of the women's loo. Under pressure she emptied the lavatory of all its women clients. Then two security men picked up the blanket and carried Jean into the loo, I following with the bedpan which I had kept among the hand luggage. Then they all trooped out until she had used the pan and I had emptied it. A few minutes later we returned in triumph to our place in the concourse and normal traffic in the ladies' loo was resumed.

Again, there was no ambulance waiting at Heathrow for there had been no time to tell them of our change of plan; but one did arrive later, and we drove off crazily over what seemed all the broken roads in London to the University College Hospital.

I never used BEA again – not, that is, until it amalgamated with BOAC and became just British Airways, by which time my anger had run its course.

Towards the end of Jean's four weeks at UCH I had a long chat with John Stokes.

He said: ‘You can see how much better she is. She has full movement in the leg and quite a lot in the hand. Of course her arm and leg will always be weak, and she'll need to wear a caliper to support her ankle for the rest of her life. But you're lucky that the stroke was on the left side – it seldom affects the speech, and for a right-handed person is much easier to adjust to.'

I said: ‘That I'm delighted about; but I'm chiefly concerned as to how we can prevent another stroke.'

He said: ‘There's no way. She should lead an easy, balanced life, and we'll control the blood pressure as far as we can. You might get five years. You might even get ten.'

The day before she left he said to me: ‘I can see how devoted you are to each other. I think – if I may say so – you must try to distance yourself from her.'

That was November 1967. After a year Jean threw her caliper into the dustbin and never used one after – though sometimes she needed it. It would be absurd to claim that she enjoyed good health. She had chesty coughs, and periods of sickness when her appetite was nil. Sometimes she was dizzy. Often she tripped and fell. She was unable to swim, dance, play golf, play the piano, or walk anywhere without a stick. Also, having known a few people with strokes, I am aware that this is not an illness which (like, say, tuberculosis) seems to breed hectic high spirits. The tendency is all for depression, and, if anything, overcaution. The easy, balanced life. Above all, take no risks. Don't subject yourself to pressures or stresses. A quiet life.

Well, with the help of my pocket diary, I have made a list of the number of places we visited in the twenty-five years from 1967 to 1992.

and:

Morocco
Kenya
Australia
Hong Kong
Bangkok
Egypt
Bermuda
Nepal
Argentina
Brazil
Canada
Hungary
Sweden
Seychelles
Finland
Denmark
Portugal
Turkey
and
Venezuela

In that time my wife:
Was piggy-backed by a native up the precipitous side of an island

in the Seychelles.
Rode on an ostrich in South Africa.
Tried unsuccessfully to surf, with a lame leg and a weak arm,

among the great waves of Port Elizabeth, Rio, St Lucia and Bondi

Beach.
With a rubber ring for support repeatedly bathed all over the

world, including sitting on beaches in Cornwall while the icy water

swirled around her.
Was carried out to, and sailed in, a catamaran in Barbados.
Went out in pedalos in Venice, Majorca and Nice.
Took a day-long motor drive across the mountains and dust roads

of Nepal to see the sun rise over Annapurna. (Accommodation for the night was at a guest house which could only be reached by crossing a river on a wooden raft built on oil drums.)

Climbed down to the Iguaçú Falls in Brazil.

Jogged endlessly and uncomplainingly hour after hour in old motor-cars in the heat and dust of India.

Flew in Concorde. (With the extra ear pressures involved.)

Took the dawn flight round Everest.

Neither of us had ever ridden as children, but just after the war we took lessons and did a bit of riding. After the second lesson the instructor sidled up to me and said: ‘ Your wife is a fearnaught.'

Perhaps that was a good summing-up.

I have to confess – though it does me no credit – that only about 10 per cent of the many trips listed were undertaken to promote my books or to gather material for a future novel. All the rest have been taken in pursuit of pleasure. I have always loved travel abroad for its own sake. War, and lack of the financial resources, prevented me from travelling much until the early 1950s, but from then on it was four or five times a year. Indeed one of my publishers once speculated sardonically that I must write my novels in my spare time.

I have never, in fact, gone abroad seeking material for a book (though several times I have gone to check over details). But in spite of Shaw's remark that travel narrows the mind, I have found the pursuit of hedonism (more sun, exotic food, warm seas) has in my case opened my eyes to new experiences and I have encountered characters of different dimension, some of whom have figured prominently in my novels – see Madame Passani in
The Green Flash
, the lonely man who told me the story of his life that wet day in Terrigal Bay, Australia (same novel), my French publisher in Paris in
Night Without Stars
.

However, there was one trip which resulted in a novel; though as far as I remember it was undertaken entirely for pleasure. Certainly it became one of the rather more hazardous.

One day I said to Jean, ‘ We've never been to Morocco. D'you think it might be a good idea?'

I knew her answer before she spoke. I have never known her turn down a new venture, nor did she ever have doubts about it before we went. (As I frequently did.)

So we flew to Gibraltar, and after a couple of days seeing the Rock, took the ferry across to Tangier. There we spent three days mainly bathing and sunbathing, then hired a self-drive car to take a look at the hinterland of Morocco.

We were warned not to go by a consular official. ‘You're safe enough as far as Ceuta. Even Tetouan is fairly quiet. But certainly avoid the Rif Mountains. There are some Berber tribes in revolt. The government in Rabat is too weak. There was a kidnapping last month.'

The first day we drove to Tetouan the car was searched perfunctorily at the border, but we were soon waved on.

The car was an extremely old Ford 8 (not cylinder, horsepower). The battery seemed a bit flat, but we thought a good run would top it up.

After the night at Tetouan we set off again for the hinterland, driving towards the Rif Mountains in the general direction of Fez. The roads were superb here, all laid down by the French before Morocco gained its independence.

A lot of the early part was desert, and about 12.30 we stopped the car in the sparse shade offered by an argan tree and prepared a picnic lunch, most of which Jean had bought that morning in the Tetouan market before we left.

We were shortly joined by a Holy Man, in tattered black djellaba, with shaven head and a long twisted stick. He squatted about six feet away from us and made a number of observations in the Berber tongue. Presently Jean offered him a sandwich, which he gratefully accepted. Two more followed during the course of our meal. I began to feel horribly uncomfortable, for the sandwiches contained ham.

Later two yellow mongrel dogs arrived, but the Holy Man would not let us feed them, not even with the crumbs that were left. Presently we were able to pack our luncheon basket in the back of the car and prepared to leave. The Holy Man became very vehement, telling us quite plainly by extravagant gestures that we should not go on.

I said in clear tones: ‘We are making for Fez. Fez,' I repeated, ‘Fez.'

I think he got the message, but his own message was unchanged. We should not go on. We must turn back. For reasons unknown we must not go any further into the desert.

I smiled and nodded and smiled and shrugged and made gestures, while Jean slipped unobtrusively into her seat.

I got in, shut the door. The car reluctantly fired and we were off, steering an apologetic course round the old man, and drove away. His shouts could be heard for miles.

We had filled up with petrol in Tetouan, and the car had used hardly any, so we were comfortable on that score. We had been driving a further hour into the desert when we saw a large white city in the far right distance shimmering through the heat haze. It was obviously an important place, with high-rise buildings one behind another and marble pillars among palm trees. It looked at least as important as we imagined Casablanca might look.