Perhaps his love for the people and land came out best when he recalled his return to Brookfield church in 1967, and watched, while inside the church, a young African girl:
the girl in front of me wore one of the surrealist Manchester cotton dresses which are rarely seen since Japanese trade moved in. The word ‘soupsweet’ was printed over her shoulder, but I had to wait until she stood up before I could confirm another phrase: ‘Fenella lak good poke’. Father Mackie would have been amused, I thought, and what better description could there be of this poor lazy lovely coloured country than ‘soupsweet’?83
The year ended and Greene prepared to leave Freetown. His activities as an SIS agent were coming to an end. Looking back on his life after the first few months in Freetown, he told his mother how on Good Friday four years before he went to a secret illegal Mass in Chiapas. Then unexpectedly and nostalgically, he commented on the quality of his existence on earth so far: ‘I’ve had an odd life when I come to think of it. Useless and sometimes miserable, but bizarre and on the whole not boring.’84
Greene continued to expect that he would be home early in the New Year. How fed up he was becoming with the colonials is clear, on 19 January 1943, from his response to the news that London was being bombed again:
I felt sick in the stomach when I heard the Germans had started on London again. I feel I’d be of much more use back wardening. One feels out of it in this colony of escapists with their huge drinking parties and their complete unconsciousness of what war is like. I had hoped at one time that we might have been bombed, but that hope has faded. Still I hope I shan’t be here many more weeks.85
It might seem that Greene himself made the decision to leave West Africa, but the truth was a little different. As early as October he related to his sister that his working relationship with his boss had deteriorated: ‘I had about two months ago a violent quarrel with my local boss and resigned. I was supported on the point at issue and offered a new position for which I was totally unfitted by lack of languages.’ Greene was forced to reject this position and was concerned about his relations with London: ‘I’m not quite sure or not whether I’m now going home under a cloud. I think not as I am not being replaced. This is a quite useless spot.’ His uncertainty of his reception is shown by his give-away humour: ‘Anyway you’ll probably hear of me yet cleaning latrines on Salisbury Plain [a British army infantry training area].’86
Kim Philby (Greene’s boss in London) described the situation succinctly: ‘After the North African landings, SIS interest in West Africa waned, and we left MI5 in possession of the field. Graham was withdrawn from Freetown and posted to my Iberian sub-section, still in a large, ugly house on the outskirts of St. Albans.’87
Whatever else Africa had been for Greene, it was financially useful. His family suffered no diminution of income, so in this sense the war was a godsend. He was able to leave his whole salary behind and live on MI6 expenses. Moreover, he didn’t have to pay income tax on his salary from the Secret Service. He was paid something like £1,000 a year, a reasonable sum in those days.88
In late January 1943 Pollinger wrote to Vivien: ‘it is good to know that Graham hopes to be back here next month’.89 In the first week of February, Vivien told Pollinger that she had had a cable from Greene advising that she ‘STOP WRITING’: ‘It would still be worth cabling anything important, but not to send parcels or letters now.’ She added that Greene might ‘have to wait some time for transport still’,90 and this turned out to be true. The first letter of welcome is dated 3 March and is from Laurence Pollinger: ‘Nancy has just told me the news. Welcome Home!’ Greene had arrived on the first day of March.
He had closed his small office in Freetown and burnt his files and code-books with the help of celluloid sheets.91 All the personal possessions he valued were put into one crate and sent home by sea. Mario Soldati, the Italian film producer and novelist, who went to Freetown with Greene in 1967, recalled Greene telling him what happened just prior to his departure:
Greene has a gift for discovering beauty, a truly existent and not imaginary beauty, in what everyone conventionally believes ugly, distorted and disagreeable. He is fond of rats, toads, and snakes. The other day [Greene] was telling me what had happened to him on leaving Freetown and giving up his job as an intelligence officer. He had been ordered to destroy a quantity of papers of no apparent further use. In the garden of his Brookfield cottage [sic], he lit a fire in a large tin drum into which he disposed of the documents. A few minutes later, when the flames began to blaze he was terrified to see the drum begin to shake violently as if it had taken on a life of its own. At first he did not realise and took no action. And soon the horrible, incomprehensible shaking stopped. A family of toads had built a nest at the bottom of the drum which was full of holes.92
He returned to England by plane, deeply troubled by the loss of the family of toads in the tin drum. On the journey back he could not sleep. In mid-war, with flights anything but safe, Greene was half-asleep and telling himself that he deserved to die; this would be his punishment for having so cruelly, though not wilfully, killed the poor toads.93
* * *
fn1 In June 1933, Greene went to a literary party given by Mrs Belloc Lowndes: ‘Charles and Dwye Evans turned up and Charles Morgan. Dwye said: “I haven’t read the paper. Who got the Hawthornden yesterday?” No one of us knew. Presently Morgan said dryly: “As a matter of fact I did.”’ The previous year (10 July 1932) having read a new novel of Ford Madox Ford, Greene had noted in his diary: ‘Finished Ford’s novel. What a book … One is inclined to exclaim “genius”, but the critics will not; they all go hunting the safe, literary stylists like Charles Morgan, who have no originality to speak of but a pretty style, dead as last year’s leaves. But Ford’s is as full of life as a flea.’
fn2 Because of the terrible shortage of books, he asked his agent that, if he ran into his publishing friends, ‘Michael Joseph, Charlie Evans, Hamish Hamilton … no, not Jonathan Cape, you might hint that any book would be welcomed with joy.’ He then added, jokingly: ‘I always encourage other people to cast their bread on the waters.’
PART 3
The Long War Ending
Greene and Douglas Jerrold at the publishers Eyre & Spottiswoode
12
Carving Brighton Rock
A cold coming we had of it.
– T. S. ELIOT
ON 15 JUNE 1942, while Greene was still in Freetown, his agent wrote to him about the dramatisation of Brighton Rock, which had been on option for two years. As a result of the blitz, and the consequent erratic opening and shutting of London theatres, the play was still not in production. London theatres learned to live with the war: there was no heating and whilst the audience in winter could sit in their overcoats, mufflers and gloves, the actors were often bitterly cold. Brighton Rock also wasn’t staged because theatre managers thought the public must be cheered up in wartime, and it was too serious to attract audiences.
The situation with the stage version of Brighton Rock was still chaotic. Greene suggested a number of manœuvres to Laurence Pollinger which would put pressure on the producers, and concluded: ‘I am not prepared to extend the option free of charge any longer without a definite date for production.’1
Greene’s letter produced several reactions. Margery Vosper, the drama agent, set out the difficulties of producing this kind of play in the early days of the war: ‘The tremendous ups and downs in the theatre these last three years has [sic] made Linnit [Bill Linnit, a theatre manager] feel that it would be a waste to produce the play. Entertainment has swung with a metallic clang to the frivolous nonstop variety vein, and air raids make the theatre’s troubles ever more acute.’2 She felt the mood was changing and, though she took all London’s theatre magnates ‘with a large dollop of salt’, she was convinced that Linnit’s enthusiasm for the play was undimmed after this delay.
There were two problems, according to Linnit: the need for a good producer (Vosper sugges
ted Emlyn Williams) who could give ‘the proper balance to the atmosphere and undercurrents of a subtle play of this kind’ and the casting. The casting of ‘Pinkie’ caused the greatest difficulty: ‘I have been anti Johnny Mills [Sir John Mills] from the start, and have been begging Bill [Linnit] to consider trying a comparatively unknown actor in this part and relying on the two women for the names particularly essential for the play’s success.’ But they were up against a further snag: ‘There is no big woman’s name who is right for “Ida”.’ Nevertheless, Linnit promised that if Vosper could think of the right distinguished cast he would put the play into rehearsal tomorrow.3
A month later – letters took that long to reach Greene in Africa – Greene responded. He disagreed about Emlyn Williams: ‘I only know him as an actor and don’t care for him at that,’ and he agreed about Mills. Although a great distance from the London theatre scene, Greene knew what he wanted. The two main parts should be cast with two young unknowns, ‘almost children from Repertory or the R.A.D.A.’ and that way, they could build up a ‘“discovery … star overnight” kind of publicity’. The girl must be very young, ‘and above all not glamorous’. The character of Ida should be played by a music-hall star (‘a large pawky woman’) with a good name, so that people would be curious to see her in a straight part. He believed that a music-hall star would be best since the part couldn’t be harmed by overacting and ‘it would give a touch of “amusement” to balance grimness’.4
As for casting for the young killer Pinkie, Greene felt they should choose: ‘a youth who can look neurotic and seventeen and sinister, and the part’s a give-away. It’s simply a thing for typecasting and a good producer. Hollywood would produce a dozen types out of a hat or the nearest industrial school!’5
Greene kept for the postscript of the letter what was of singular importance to him: ‘I still haven’t seen or passed any finished version of the play. I can’t help feeling that if Linnit is ready to put it on when he finds a cast, this preliminary should be got out of the way. I made suggestions over the first draft with which Harvey [who adapted the novel] agreed, but I never saw the result.’6
The fact that he had not read a finished version continued to trouble Greene and he sent a cable to Pollinger on 1 December 1942: ‘I HAVE NEITHER SEEN NOR APPROVED SCRIPT ROCK. ARE ALTERATIONS IN FIRST VERSION INCLUDING EXTRA SCENE INCORPORATED IN MY ABSENCE. VIVIEN MUST APPROVE. ASK HER FORWARD SCRIPT QUICK WAY’ (that is, by diplomatic bag).
Greene’s next cable from Sierra Leone brought up the fact that Brighton Rock was not in print: ‘WILL HEINEMANN HAVE ROCK IN PRINT READY FOR PLAY OR WILL THEY RELEASE TO PENGUIN OR EYRE [& Spottiswoode]’. Greene left little to chance, assuming that publishers and agents have to be kept alert. But there were legitimate reasons for delays, and Pollinger felt the need to stress wartime conditions: ‘I am not sure you appreciate how terribly short staffed everyone is these days: out of our own original staff of sixteen we now have only two, and that same state of affairs exists everywhere.’7
Vivien, whose task it was to vet the play script, asked Pollinger to send a duplicate to Greene in Sierra Leone: ‘He hasn’t seen it at all so far as I know – anyway not since 1940. I could then O.K. a final version with much more certainty. There would not be time to send a final version to him. Get this duplicate sent to me, marked MSS. ONLY and I will forward it by the quick route at once.’8 One reason for speed was that Greene was expected home early in the New Year. However, Pollinger discovered there was only one script on which revisions were being made, and that it would take several weeks to do a duplicate – there were no copying machines then. He was firmly against having further copies made because it would interfere with or delay Linnit’s plans for production. Moreover, there was a mad scramble going on to get in the long line of plays to London theatres, and nothing must be done to lose Brighton Rock its place.
The old Playhouse, and The Winter Garden theatres have been re-opened, and I am told there are a number of plays waiting for London homes [wrote Pollinger to Greene]: that some of them have been waiting for several months, and are likely to have to wait for several months longer before West End theatres are available for them. Therefore, all things carefully considered, I do feel pretty strongly that if Linnit’s plans are in any way held up we shall have to wait many months more before we shall see BRIGHTON ROCK produced and running vigorously within a stone’s throw of Piccadilly.9
A copy of the script was at last sent to Greene by diplomatic bag and he cabled Vivien on 1 January 1943: ‘SCRIPT APPROVED WITH YOUR OMISSIONS LAST SCENE NEEDS ATTENTION AND CAREFUL CASTING AVOID PIETY DO NOT APPROVE LINNITS PROPOSED ENDING SCRIPT ON WAY BACK WITH AMENDMENTS LAST SCENE LOVE GREENE.’ On the same day, he wrote to Pollinger (with a carbon copy to Vivien) explaining in more detail what he meant:
I have read the script again and approve it in its present form. I think Vivien’s suggested omissions improve it. I am not quite happy about the last scene: I’m so afraid of piety breaking in: and I have cut it a little, but I must insist on the ending being kept. Linnit had some crazy idea of getting Rose to consent ‘to be looked after’ by Ida – which means that he’s lost the point of the whole thing as Ida is the real villain of the piece and Harvey has brought that out well. As I have written to Vivien, I’m convinced he is commercially wrong. The last part of the book did more than anything else to get it under people’s skin, and so it will in the play. It’s a magnificent curtain.10
Feeling financially sound after having sold the film rights to The Ministry of Fear, Greene felt he could insist on the play being well done or not done at all: ‘I’d much rather the whole thing was indefinitely postponed than that a bad play should be produced.’ He understood the necessity for alterations in dialogue which rehearsals demanded; but the theme, characters, plot and outline and, above all, the ending had to remain unchanged, and Vivien, on his behalf, had to be the final judge.
After almost three years rehearsals started on 25 January. The producer, in choosing who should play Pinkie and Rose, had not picked unknowns, but they were young ‘knowns’. Rose was played by Dulcie Gray (then twenty-two) and Pinkie by Richard Attenborough. Attenborough was a particularly good choice. He was nineteen, and could look ‘neurotic and seventeen and sinister’. The producer also felt he had found the perfect ‘Ida’ – Hermione Baddeley. On 11 February Pollinger sent a cable to Greene: BRIGHTON ROCK OPENING BLACKPOOL FEBRUARY FIFTEEN HERES WISHING IT EVERY SUCCESS.
Alas, Vivien, the final judge, had not been able to leave the children to see any rehearsals before it opened in Blackpool, and she feared the consequences: ‘I suppose I can’t see a rehearsal now till just before it opens in London?’ she wrote to Pollinger. ‘G. will be furious!!’11 But Pollinger thought the play had gone well in Blackpool and that Greene would be pleased: ‘They have kept the spirit of the thing excellently. It needs quite a bit of tidying up which they are doing. They were working under great difficulties in Blackpool. Two scenes require brilliant sunshine and stage lighting is controlled under the Fuel and Lighting Order.’12
Greene, returning from Africa on 1 March, attended the first night at the New Theatre in Oxford. He went with his family and it should have been a wonderful home-coming for his wife and children, but it was not. He was horrified by changes made to the play. Greene believed that Linnit, by adding certain lines, had destroyed the whole point: ‘Now new lines have been inserted in Ida’s mouth in Act 3, Scene 2, when she tells Pinkie that he belongs to a small crooked perverted world which can’t beat her – she belongs to the real world.’ But, ‘the idea is that Pinkie & Rose belong to the real world in which good & evil exist, but that the interfering Ida belongs to a kind of artificial surface world in which there is no such thing as good & evil but only right & wrong.’ Thus, the ‘poor audience wonders what in hell the play’s about’.
He believed that Hermione Baddeley was badly miscast: ‘Her performance is on the overacted level of a revue sketch & her grotesqueness is all wron
g for the part.’ She was intolerable, but it was too late to do anything about that: ‘she shouts all the time & has no variety in her voice. She shouldn’t be dressed to get a laugh: she is meant to be a natural amateur bawd not an oddity whom nobody could possibly sleep with.’ Also, certain passages added to her part enabled her to ‘pull out an emotional stop … with grotesque inefficiency’. There comes a ‘preliminary break in Miss Baddeley’s voice which sounds rather like a gargle & can obviously be heard at the back of the gallery. The passages generally refer to her desire to be a mother to Rose.’13
What was tremendously painful to Greene was that the removal of the last scene and the priest’s speech about ‘the appalling strangeness of the mercy of God’ made the play pointless:
Has this been removed in order to shorten the play – a case of Hamlet being shorter without the Prince of Denmark? We must have an explanation about this – I made an explicit condition of approving the script that the ending should be unchanged – & I am quite prepared to seek an injunction if I am not satisfied with Linnit’s explanation. The last minutes of the last scene now are purely grotesque with Hermione rushing in with her fallen arches to the rescue.14
Greene’s anger knew no bounds. He had criticised Noël Coward because Coward, in his view, was without any serious concern, had no sustaining values in his work except that he was clever and witty; he was fundamentally nihilistic. The play Greene had written had gone and something equally nihilistic had replaced it.
He insisted that his name be removed from all programmes and posters, and that no reference to him or his book be made in any publicity put out by the firm, if changes were not made. His threat to invoke the law gives some measure of his anger and is an indication of his rage when he felt his work was being ‘carved up’ by the ignorant. It makes clear what Vivien understood when she wrote: ‘G. will be furious!!’
The Life of Graham Greene (1939-1955) Page 21