Any Human Heart

by William Boyd

  I played our usual nine holes with Kwaku this afternoon and told him I was obliged to leave next year and wondered vaguely if there was the likelihood of any other job being available to me out here. Candidly, he thought it would be almost impossible – you’d lose your house, he said, you’d get a quarter of your salary. You’d have to go to Ibadan, at least, if not Lagos.

  For some reason I don’t want to leave Africa – I’ve come to like my life here – and Britain and Europe seem strangely hostile, now. But I can see that the prospects of employment for a 65-year-old Englishman with a third-class degree from Oxford must be poor. So back to London it shall be, I suppose, back to Turpentine Lane – see what kind of living I can scrape with my pen.

  [July]

  After a swim at the club pool I wandered back to Danfodio Road, feeling the sun hot upon my bare head. I opened a bottle of Star Beer and sat on the veranda, drinking. Then I went out into my garden and wandered around its perimeter touching the trees with the palms of my hand – the casuarinas, the guava, the cotton tree, the avocado, the frangipani – as if this last touch, this fleeting caress, was a way of saying goodbye to them, my trees, my African life. My ears were filled with the metallic static of the cicadas and the faint breeze raised the smell of dust from the bleached grass. I rested my forehead against the trunk of a papaya and closed my eyes. Then I heard Godspeed, my gardener, saying in anxious tones, ‘Sar – you go be all right?’ No, I wanted to say: I go fear I never go be all right never again.

  1David Gascoyne (1916-2001), poet and translator.

  2Dr Kwaku Okafor, LMS’s next-door neighbour.

  3The Nigerian Civil War – the Biafran war – had begun in 1967 when the eastern states of Nigeria unilaterally seceded from the republic, taking most of Nigeria’s oil reserves with them.

  4Cesare di Cordato died in 1965, aged seventy-seven.

  5A colleague in the English Literature Department.

  6The nickname of the entirely bald Professor of English at Ikiri, Prof. Donald Camrose.

  7LMS had bought his predecessor’s car when he arrived in 1965 – an Austin 1100.

  8The Biafran leader, an Ibo.

  9Harold Wilson was the then Prime Minister of Great Britain.

  The Second London Journal

  Logan Mountstuart returned to London at the end of the summer term in July 1971 and took up residence once again in Turpentine Lane, Pimlico. He only had his old-age pension and his savings to sustain him financially (his few years’ contribution to the U.C. Ikiri pension plan was too short-lived to provide anything more than a pittance) so he applied himself to his former profession of freelance writer with diligence if not enthusiasm. Polity, his main source of income, folded in 1972, and Sheila Adrar at Wallace Douglas Ltd was unsuccessful (or dilatory) in securing any advance from a publisher for the long-nurtured novel Octet. Udo Feuerbach retained him as London correspondent for revolver and Ben Leeping, ailing now from prostate cancer, paid him for occasional consultancy work for Leeping Frères. Slowly but surely, over the next few years, LMS became ever more impecunious. The Second London Journal opens in the spring of 1975.

  1975

  Wednesday, 23 April

  I sacked that bitch Adrar today. I went into the agency to photocopy a few magazine articles I needed for research on Octet. First of all, the girl on reception refused to believe I was a client of the firm – then she found my file somewhere. I said that Wallace Douglas himself had given me permission to use the office facilities whenever I pleased. Anyway, there I was, photocopying away, but quite aware of the whispered confusion and semi-panic in the office: who is that old man in the pinstriped suit? What does he think he’s doing? Should we call the police? Eventually, Sheila Adrar herself appeared, looking very well coiffed and prosperous in a blue suit with a short skirt. ‘Logan,’ she said with the widest and falsest smile, ‘how wonderful to see you.’ Then she offered to help, gathering up the loose leaves of paper and checking the counter on the machine. Sixty two copies she said, at twopence a copy, that’ll be £1.64. Most amusing, Sheila, I said, and took the copies from her and made my way to the door. I’d like the money please, Logan, she said, this is not a charity. Well, I just blew up. How dare you? I said. Have you any idea how much money I’ve made for this firm? And you have the nerve to charge me for a few copies. Shame on you. You’ve made nothing for this firm since the Second World War, she said. Right! I shouted, that’s it. You’re fucking sacked, the whole useless lot of you! I’m taking my business elsewhere – and I strode out.

  I went into a pub to calm myself down and found my hands were shaking – with sheer rage, not embarrassment, I hasten to add. I’ll call Wallace in the morning and explain what happened. Perhaps he can recommend someone new.

  Pleased to have taken up this journal again even if its purpose is more sinister. I fear it will become a documentation of one writer’s decline; a commentary on the London literary scene from the point of view of a superannuated scribbler. These final acts in a writer’s life usually go unrecorded because the reality is too shaming, too sad, too banal. But, on the contrary, it seems to me to be even more important now, after everything that has gone before, to set down the facts as I experience them. No country house, here; no honour-heaped twilight years, no proper respect from a grateful nation or recompense from a profession I’ve served for decades. When some insincere bloodsucker like Adrar dares to claim £1.64 off someone like me then I look at it as a genuine watershed – not because of her temerity, but because I actually couldn’t afford to pay her. £1.64, judiciously spent, can provide me with food for three days. This is the level to which I have descended.

  So here is the reckoning. Assets: I own my basement flat in Turpentine Lane, Pimlico. I own its furnishings. I possess about a thousand books, some increasingly threadbare clothes, a watch, cufflinks, etc. Income: my published books are all out of print, thus income from royalties is nil. I have the standard old-age pension provided by the state with an insignificant addition of almost £3 a week from my U.C. Ikiri pension fund. Freelance work: very erratic.

  Expenditure: rates, gas, electricity, water, telephone, food, clothing, transport. I have no car – I travel by bus or tube. I have no television (hire and licence fee too expensive – I listen to the radio and play my gramophone records). My only indulgences, the luxuries in my life, are alcohol and cigarettes and the occasional visit to a cinema or pub. I read newspapers that I find discarded on buses and tube trains.

  My head is just kept above water by occasional journalism and consultancy work for Leeping Frères. Last year I earned approximately £650. So far this year I’ve written a long piece on Rothko (£50), reviewed a book on Bloomsbury (£25) and assessed a private collection of pictures for Ben (£200).

  I eat frugal meals of corned beef (the culinary leitmotif in my life), baked beans and potatoes. A tin of condensed soup, well diluted, can be eked out to four or five servings. A tea bag, properly utilized, can make three cups of weakish tea. And so on. Thank God I had a good tailor. My last set of suits from Byrne & Milner will last many more years with careful maintenance. Underwear, socks and shirts are rare purchases. I wash my clothes by hand and dry them in front of the gas fire in winter or on a rack set out in the basement well in the summer. Foreign travel is out of the question unless wholly subsidized by others. For example, Gloria asked me to La Fucina for ‘as long as I liked’ this summer. I told her I couldn’t afford the fare and since she didn’t offer to pay I assume she’s similarly strapped for cash herself.

  I still drink – cider, beer and the cheapest wine – and I have taken to rolling my own cigarettes.

  In the day I go to a public library to continue my research on Octet or to write my rare articles. I type them up at home in the evening. Then I listen to the radio or gramophone records and read. I might go to my local pub, the Cornwallis, for a half pint of bitter two or three times a week. I have my health, I am independent, I owe no money. I am – just – surviving. This is
the life of an elderly man of letters, here in London, in 1975.

  [NOTE IN RETROSPECT. 1982. I never noted it at the time but, during these years when I was truly on my uppers, I used occasionally to recall what Mr Schmidt had screamed at me that morning in New York when Monday/Laura had made her dash for freedom. LOSER! You English loser… I suppose he thought it was the most grievous insult he could hurl. But such a curse doesn’t really have any effect on an English person – or a European – it seems to me. We know we’re all going to lose in the end so it is deprived of any force as a slur. But not in the USA. Perhaps this is the great difference between the two worlds, this concept of Loserdom. In the New World it is the ultimate mark of shame – in the Old it prompts only a wry sympathy. I wonder what Titus Fitch would have to say.]

  Wednesday, 7 May

  To the Travellers’ Club for lunch with Peter [Scabius]. I buy a new shirt from a market stall (price 80 pence) and with my dark blue suit and my RNVR tie I think I pass muster. Put some oil on my hair and comb it flat. My shoes still look suspect – a little busted – even after a vigorous polish, but I think I look pretty smart.

  Peter has become portly, flushed, with many tedious complaints: his blood pressure, his ghastly children, the unmitigated boredom of life in the Channel Islands. I say: what’s the point of having all this money if the money forces you to live somewhere you dislike? He rebukes me: I don’t understand – his accountants are immovable. I take the opportunity to eat heartily – three bread rolls with my mulligatawny soup, three veg. with my roast lamb, then apple crumble and cream and a wedge of Wensleydale from the cheese board. Peter is currently banned from drinking (incipient diabetes, he thinks) so I enjoy a half bottle of claret and a large port on my own. He sees me to the door and I notice he’s limping. For the first time in our encounter he asks me a question about myself: what’re you up to, Logan? Working on a novel, I say. Marvellous, marvellous, he replies vaguely, then asks me if I still read novels. He confesses he can’t get on with novels, these days, he only reads newspapers and magazines. I tell him I’m re-reading Smollett, just to make him feel bad, then step out into Pall Mall and flag down a taxi. We shake hands, promise to stay in touch. I climb into the taxi and as soon as it’s turned the corner into the Mall I order it to stop and get out. 65 pence for three hundred yards, but worth every penny not to let the side down.

  Sunday, 8 June

  Walked to Battersea Park yesterday and sat in the sun reading a newspaper. I see inflation is running at 25 per cent in Britain, so I shall have to do a quarter more work just to maintain my feeble status quo. Napier Forsyth dropped me a line to say he was now working for the Economist. Perhaps there’ll be something for me there.

  Then I wandered the streets to Melville Road – which was a huge mistake – but I was thinking about Freya and Stella and our walks in the park. Whatever happened to our dog? What was its name?1 It shocked me that I couldn’t remember its name. Perhaps it was killed in the v-2 blast also. Now I come to think of it, Freya would probably have taken the dog to meet Stella from school.

  When I came home I sat for an hour staring at their photographs. Couldn’t stop crying. Those were the years when I was truly happy. Knowing that is both a blessing and a curse. It’s good to acknowledge that you found true happiness in your life – in that sense your life has not been wasted. But to admit that you will never be happy like that again is hard. Stella would be thirty-seven by now, married perhaps, with her own children. Grandchildren for me. Or not. Who knows how anyone’s life will go? So, fond speculation is fruitless.

  I drank a bottle of cider, wanting to be drunk and succeeding. Headache this morning. Mouth rank from my foul roll-ups. Silly old fool.

  Friday, 1 August

  One of those intolerable hot London summer days when the tar under your feet seems to soften and melt. Even I was forced to abandon my usual jacket and tie and found a lurid tie-die shirt from Ikiri days. I went down to the Cornwallis for a gin and tonic at lunch time, having typed up my review for the Economist (Napier’s done me proud – I review any type of art book for them: £30 a go). The pub was quiet and clean, every surface freshly wiped, waiting for the lunch-time rush. I sat by the open doorway to catch the breeze, the glass clinking cold in my hand, and heard the following conversation that took place between a middle-aged man and woman sitting on a bench outside.

  WOMAN: How are you?

  MAN: Not very well.

  WOMAN: What’s wrong?

  MAN: My health. I’ve got a dodgy heart. And cancer. What you might call both barrels.

  WOMAN: Oh, poor you.

  MAN: How’s John?

  WOMAN: He’s dead.

  MAN: Cancer?

  WOMAN: No, he committed suicide.

  MAN: Jesus Christ.

  WOMAN: Excuse me, it’s just too depressing.

  She stands up and comes into the pub, goes to sit in a corner on her own.

  1976

  Thursday, 1 January

  Saw in the New Year with a quart of whisky (‘Clan McScot’) and two tins of Carlsberg Special Brew. I don’t think I’ve been so drunk since university. I feel bad today, my old body trying to cope with the toxins I’ve poured into it. I face the year ahead in a spirit of – what? – stubborn indifference. It seems to me extraordinary and incredible that, just a short while ago, I had a household of four servants. Simeon sent me a Christmas card wishing me good health, joy and prosperity, and hoped I was writing many fine books. Joy and prosperity seem out of reach so perhaps I should concentrate on maintaining such health as I have, that way I might just finish the one book I have left in me.

  I have a piece to write for the Spectator on Paul Klee. (To think I used to own a Paul Klee. What life was that?) For some reason the Spectator’s rate has dropped to a measly £10.

  One of the things I miss most about Africa is my golf on the scrubby Ikiri course with Dr Kwaku. I miss the golf and our beer on the clubhouse stoop watching the sun sink. What is it I like about golf? It’s not strenuous, which is an advantage. I think its great benefit as a sport is that, however much of a hacker you are, it is still possible to play a golf shot that is the equal of the best golfer in the world. I remember one day I had taken a scrappy seven at the par four eighth hole at Ikiri and lined up for the short ninth, a par three, with a six-iron. Feeling hot, sweaty and out of sorts, I swung, struck, the ball soared, bounced once on the brown and dropped in the hole. A hole in one. It was the perfect shot – couldn’t be bettered, even by the world’s champion golfer. I can’t think of any other ball game that allows the amateur duffer a chance at perfection. It made me happy for a year, that shot, every time I recalled it. Makes me happy now.

  Sunday, 15 February

  Strange and plaintive telephone call from Gloria, asking if she can come and stay for a few days. I said, of course – adding the usual warnings: lack of comfort, no TV, dark basement flat in insalubrious area, etc. I said, why do you want to come to London in February? She said, ominously, that she needed to see a doctor.

  As far as I know Gloria has a brother who lives in Toronto, a niece in Scarborough and that’s it. Well, what are old friends for?

  I forgot to say that I woke last Friday with a foreign object in my mouth and spat it out on to the pillow – it was one of my teeth. Possibly one of the most unpleasant waking experiences of my life. At the local dentist, however, the man gave me the all clear. Everything else looks more or less fine, he said, and commented on the impressive crowning and bridgework my mouth boasted. Must have cost a fortune, he said wistfully. Thank you, excellent American dentists of New York. I have an irrational fear of losing my teeth – actually it’s not irrational, it’s highly rational. But assuming I live long enough it’s probably inevitable. Somebody told me (who?) that both Waugh and T. S. Eliot lost the will to live when they had their teeth extracted and were presented with a set of snappers. Is this a writer’s problem? A feeling that when we lose our bite we might as well throw in the towel?
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  Friday, 27 February

  Gloria arrived yesterday and I have given her my room – though I have to say I’m too old to sleep comfortably on a sofa. She looks awful: gaunt and yellow, her face shrunken, her hands trembling. I asked her what was wrong and she said she didn’t know but was sure it was something major. Her hair is dry and thin, her skin mottled and slack like an ancient lizard’s. She thinks it may be a problem with her liver (‘Why else would I be this peculiar colour?’) but she complains of aches in her spine and hips as well. She’s also very short of breath.

  None the less, we were pleased to see each other and drank the best part of the bottle of gin she’d brought as a present. I cooked up some spaghetti with sauce out of a can. She hardly touched her food, though, wanting to drink and smoke and talk. I told her about my last encounter with Peter and we laughed and coughed at each other. She has sold La Fucina and is having the funds transferred. ‘I got nothing for it,’ she said. ‘Pennies – after I paid the tax and the debts.’ I asked her where she was planning to stay and she said, ‘I was rather planning to stay with you, Logan, darling. Just until the doctor’s had a look and we know the prognosis.’ I’m going to take her to my clinic on Lupus Street.