by William Boyd
[June]
Thorpe. This summer is going to be very difficult. Lottie has rented a house in Fowey in Cornwall for July and August. I’ve told her I have to be away in France for much of August to do research on The Cosmopolitans, which she accepted, but put on her grumpy face for the rest of the day. She suspects nothing, I know.
Some money worries too. We are overdrawn at the bank, and when Lottie asked for an increase in her allowance Aelthred had a quiet anxious word with me: he couldn’t understand how with my income and Lottie’s allowance a young couple (with no mortgage) could get into debt. Lottie spends without thinking, I explained, and told him that currently I was earning very little—a writer’s life, you know, either feast or famine. Of course none of my earnings go into the joint account. I urged Lottie to economize but the concept is alien to her. My royalties from TMI and TGF are modest now (though Girl Factory did surprisingly well in France) and the money from the film sale seemed to dwindle like snow in the sun. The Draycott flat and the expenses of my London life with Freya eat up most of what I earn through journalism and I won’t receive another lump sum until I deliver Cosmopolitans—about £150. Until that day arrives I’ve borrowed against that payment (through Wallace’s, good offices) to fund our summer. I’m taking Freya to Biarritz.
§
[NOTE IN RETROSPECT. 1965. Interestingly enough, this was the first time in my life that I became worried about money and was obliged to budget. Until June of 1934, it’s fair to say that I never gave a thought as to how I—or someone else—might pay any bill presented to me.]
[June]
Lionel has croup. He seems a sickly baby. I sat him on my knee the other day and he stared at me with a baleful, sullen, unknowing eye.
§
Wallace says there is a job on offer as chief book reviewer on artrevue (yes, all one word) at £10 a month. Extra for any features I may write. Apparently my Picasso piece impressed them. It’s a pretentious, expensive magazine (supported, aptly enough, by some pretentious, millionaire philanthropist) but at least it concedes that people make art outside this little island. I accept without thinking—even though I know I must finish Cosmopolitans as quickly as possible. It’s an expensive business leading a double life. And after Cosmopolitans, what next?
Monday, 30 July
Back from Fowey. Christ, what an ordeal. When we were alone as a family I could just about tolerate it but when there were guests it was insupportable. I felt I was undergoing some sort of elaborate prison sentence. Angus and Sally,↓ then Ianthe and family.
≡ Sally Ross, his fiancée.
Luckily I’m going to miss Aelthred and Enid. I came up to London on’the earliest train and went straight to Broadcasting House to meet Freya. We went round the corner to a pub and held hands and drank gins and tonic. She can only come away for two weeks—she has to save some of her annual holiday for her father.
I go to visit Mother. There are now four sets of lodgers in Sumner Place. Mother and Encarnarion occupy the ground floor and have rented out the other three, including the basement. No sight or sound of Prendergast for over a year. I made her bring out every document relating to her financial transactions. Father left her the house in Birmingham and assets of almost £15,000. Even after buying and decorating the house in Sumner Place there should have been more than enough to provide her with a handsome income for life (at least £1,000 a year) and me with the legacy Father promised. I can hear his words: ‘You will both be well provided for.’ Both. This was not just Mother’s money, it was mine as well. And taking into account the extravagances—the motor cars, the servants, my allowance—I calculate that the Crash has cost us almost everything. Prendergast, through his reckless investments in US stocks, has lost us £8,000—a fortune—not to mention the 62nd Street apartment. I suppose I should feel anger but it’s always hard trying to imagine the loss of something you never had. At least Sumner Place is hers, however sad it is to see her sharing it with strangers, and she has enough income trickling in from the rents to look after herself. I notice an empty gin bottle in the kitchen—I will have a quiet word with Encarnation. Endless moans, needless to say, about not seeing enough of her grandson.
I’m writing this in Draycott Avenue: Freya has been living here while I’ve been away in Cornwall. There are flowers in vases, the place feels and smells clean. Our narrow little bed has fresh sheets on it. I hear Freya’s key in the lock. On Wednesday we leave for France.
Tuesday, 31 July
Meeting at artrewe. I like Udo [Feuerbach, the editor], a swarthy, sophisticated German refugee who taught briefly at the Dessau Bauhaus, and I think he’s pleased with my pieces. Udo’s evaluative criteria are summed up in only two phrases: an artist, or a work of art, is either ganzordinar (very ordinary) or displays teuflische Virtuositdt (devilish virtuosity)—I’ve never heard him elaborate further. Does ‘? make judging simpler, I must say. He’s commissioned a long article on Juan Gris↓—my suggestion, and not prompted by the fact that I own a couple of charcoal drawings.
20. Juan Gris (1887-1927), painter.
Gris is very underrated—and now he’s dead the twin refulgent beams of Picasso and Braque confine him unjustifiably to the shadows. Udo also wants me to interview Picasso, if I can set it up through Ben. I warm to Udo’s Bauhaus egalitarianism. The artrevue office is one large room with a refectory table down the middle around which everyone—editor, secretary, designer, proofreaders and visiting writers—sits. No magazine in England would ever organize itself in this—way.
I jumped off the bus on the Brompton Road and was just about to turn down Draycott Avenue when I heard someone shout my name. I looked round and saw Joseph Darker climbing out of a police car. We chatted a bit and I told him about Lottie, Lionel and the move to Norfolk and apologized for losing touch.
‘How’s the family?’ I asked.
‘We had a bit of a blow, there,’ he said, looking down. ‘Tilda died last year. Diphtheria.’
I don’t know why the news shocked me the way it did. I even staggered back a pace or two as if I’d been pushed. I remembered that diffident woman, always apologizing, now dead and gone for ever. I muttered something bland, but he could see how buffeted I’d been. We exchanged a few more words and I gave him my new address. I came home and felt genuinely saddened. I told Freya how I had reacted and she said, ‘We’re not ready for it—for people of our age to die. We think we’re safe for a while, but it’s a dream. No one’s safe.’ She ran her hands through my hair, put her arms around me and stpod on my shoes. Then she hooked a leg round and through mine. It’s something she does, one of her quirks—a ‘leg-hug’ she calls it—‘Got you,’ she would say, ‘clinging on for dear old life.’
Friday, 3 August
Biarritz. Ben has taken a large villa between Biarritz and Bidart, set back about half a mile from the coast, with a big overgrown garden with many trees and a concrete swimming pool. The party consists of Ben and Sandrine, Alice and Tim Farino, me and Freya, Cyprien Dieudonne and his girlfriend, Mita, a dancer from Guadeloupe, and Geddes Brown (now one of Ben’s artists) and his friend, an Italian—also a painter—called Carlo.
Every day a picnic lunch is served beside the pool for those who are staying at the house, but we are free to come and go—to the beaches at Saint-Jean-de-Luz and Biarritz, or up into the mountains to walk.
There was a memorable moment yesterday at lunch—Geddes and Carlo were absent, and Cyprien had gone into Biarritz to get his spectacles repaired. We’d all eaten and drunk a great deal when Alice suddenly unhooked the top of her two-piece swimsuit, moved her chair into a patch of sunshine and sat there bare-breasted.
‘Are you all right, darling?’ Tim said, wholly unperturbed.
‘You know I like to do this,’ she said. ‘So much nicer to feel the breeze on your tits.’
At which point all the other women around the table looked at each other and spontaneously removed their various tops and we finished lunch with all these shapely and
beautiful breasts on display. I found it quite arousing at first but after ten minutes it seemed the most natural thing in the world. I caught Freya’s eye—she was striped like a tiger from sun and shadow cast by the bamboo lattice beneath which we were sitting. She reached back behind her head to adjust a clip in her hair and I watched her breasts rise and flatten as she did so, the shadow-stripes shifting to accommodate the new contours. When the party broke up for a game of boules we slipped away to our room.
Thursday, 9 August
Geddes and Carlo have gone up to the mountains for a few days to paint. Too much ocean light,’ Geddes said. I think he has talent—he certainly works hard—and I quite like him, a blunt and dour fellow, though I think he’s a little wary of me. He still sees Land, he told me, and implied she was having an affair with Oliver Lee.
It was a little overcast this morning, so Tim Farino and I went to play golf at the Plateau du Phare Club in Biarritz. Tim’s not a bad player, but we were both rusty with lack of practice. I had just birdied the ninth hole and was teeing up at the tenth when a man in white flannels and a blazer approached us, announcing himself as secretary of the golf club, and asking if we would mind allowing a distinguished visitor the opportunity of playing the back half ahead of us. Our green fees would be reimbursed, he added by way of incentive, and gestured at a couple of men walking down the gravel path from the club house, followed by caddies.
‘Are you English or American?’ the secretary asked.
‘I’m English,’ I said.
He leant forward and whispered, ‘It’s the Prince of Wales.’
And of course I recognized him immediately as he drew near. He’s a small, delicately made man and was wearing immaculate plus fours with ankle boots. He was carrying a flat tweed cap and his blond hair was thick and oiled in an immaculate part. He was with a taller, older, slightly untidily dressed man who was not introduced—an equerry, I supposed.
The secretary, bowing and scraping, explained that these English gentlemen had kindly agreed to give way.
We shook hands: I introduced myself and Tim.
‘Awfully good of you,’ said the Prince. ‘We just want to get in a quick nine holes before luncheon. Don’t want to keep the ladies waiting.’
We stood back and watched them drive off. The Prince had a stiff, awkward swing—not a natural sportsman, I would say. They strode off- and then the Prince came jogging back, an unlit cigarette in his hand.
‘Got a light?’ he said. I took out a box of matches and lit his cigarette.
‘Couldn’t spare the box, could you?’ he said and gave me his famous smile.
‘All yours, sir,’ I said, handing them over.
‘Thanks. What was your name again?’
I told him. Logan Mountstuart, sir.
§
Later. Ben says the Prince has taken a house here and that the American woman, Mrs Simpson, chaperoned by her aunt, is with him. Some ribald speculation ensued. Tim says he knew her vaguely before she married Simpson—knew her first husband, a terrible drunk, by all accounts. Freya didn’t understand our innuendoes, so we explained about Lady Furness being supplanted and the new favourite. She was amazed: she knew nothing of all this. I realized I’d heard all the gossip from Angus Cassell. Ben said it was common knowledge in Paris.
Worth noting these encounters, I think, however nondescript—the gift of a box of matches to the future King of England. We forget, otherwise. What else? He was wearing no tie.
Friday, 17 August
Freya goes back tomorrow and I intend to stay on until the end of the month—perhaps go on to the Lot and stay with Cyprien. ‘Think of me on Monday morning walking into the BBC,’ Freya said, as we lay in bed, giving a half groan, half scream. ‘And think of me thinking of you lot down here. IT’S NOT FAIR!’
‘You’ve got to give up your job,’ I said, reaching for her.
‘And what would I do then?’ she said. ‘Become a writer?’
Saturday, 18 August
Freya off on the train to Paris. I begged her to stay on in Draycott Avenue, to think of the flat as hers and she promised to consider it. ‘If I move in,’ she said, ‘I’ll be paying my share of the rent.’ I demurred half-heartedly—every little helps. ‘I’ll not be your kept woman, Logan,’ she said sternly. How I’ll miss her.
These have been magical days down here on the coast. I am burnt brown but Freya, my northern goddess, doesn’t like the sun as much as I do. To remember: wading hand and hand into the big surf at Hendaye. Standing naked at the window, looking out on the garden at night, feeling the cool air on my body, listening to the drilling noise of the cicadas, Freya calling me back to bed. Long conversations around the lunch table—as extra wine is fetched to see us through the afternoon—Cyprien, Ben and me arguing about Joyce; Geddes making the case for Braque against Picasso; talking about the spitefulness of Bloomsbury—Freya stoutly defending Mrs Woolf against all comers; analysing Scott Fitzgerald’s new novel↓ (apparently his wife is insane, Alice says).
≡ Tender is the Night.
Nights in the casino, dancing to the jazz band. Freya winning a thousand francs at blackjack—her unmitigated joy at this unearned gift of money.
Ben has been a discreet and true friend, given he was an usher at my wedding. I tried to explain the situation vis-a-vis Lottie but he didn’t want to hear. ‘I don’t care, Logan. You live your life and I’ll live mine. I won’t judge you—just as long as you’re happy. I’d hope you’d do the same for me.’ I assured him I would.
He told me a lot about Gris and how ill he had been at the end of his life. He said, if I were interested, he could lay his hands on a small ‘but exquisite’ late still life. How much? I said. £50, he said, cash. I can’t afford it but something in me made me say I’d take it. He went off immediately to make a telephone call to Paris.
Vague ideas rove around my head about setting a novel here, around such a summer house-party as this.
[November]
The Juan Gris, ‘Ceramic Jar and Three Apricots’, hangs above the fireplace in Draycott Avenue. The walls are covered with my other drawings and oils. In August Freya painted the room dark olive and on these gloomy evenings, with winter coming on, the lamps seem to glow with an extra warmth, backed against the earthy greenness that surrounds them.
Freya has decided to live here on condition that she contributes something to the rent (£5 a month). She punctiliously hands me a fiver on the first day of each new month (I’m not ashamed to say every little helps—but I see I’ve already mentioned that above—which doesn’t make it any less true). I’ve now borrowed to the full extent of my Cosmopolitans advance. All the money I made from The Girl Factory is tied up in blue-chip shares and insurance policies, which I can’t cash without alerting Lottie, or Aelthred, even worse. Wallace urges me to deliver Cosmopolitans, but I keep telling him I haven’t the time to spare as I’m doing so much extra journalism these days, to make ends meet. I suggested doing a monograph on Gris, but Wallace shot that down at once—saying I’d be lucky if I got £10.
At lunch the other day:
§
WALLACE: I thought you said you had an idea for another novel. ME: Just a vague idea. About a group of young people, couples, sharing a villa at Biarritz for the summer. WALLACE: Sounds excellent. I’d read that. ME: I thought of calling it Summer at Saint-Jean. WALLACE: You can’t fail with ‘Summer’ in the title. I could get you £500 tomorrow.
ME: Wonderful. But when am I meant to write it? WALLACE: Write a synopsis. Two pages. A few lines. Time’s running out, Logan.
§
That sounded ominous—clearly my Girl Factory credit is all but used up. So I sat down and tried to put something on paper. As a simple experiment, I took our situation at Biarritz, changed everyone’s names, created extra tensions, external pressures (wives, ex-lovers). Suddenly, like Wallace, I could see the huge potential in this idea—the sex appeal, abroad, the freedom of summer heat by the ocean—but I couldn’t unleas
h it, no matter how I tried.
1935
[January]
Snowed-in at Thorpe. Snow piled up to the window ledges. It would be rather beautiful and romantic if I were here with Freya and not Lottie and Lionel, who seems to have whooping cough. I hear the raucous mocking call of the rooks in the elms—Freya-Freya-Freya—they seem to cry.
§
Udo Feuerbach has asked me to do a piece on the Bauhaus and lent me photographs from his collection. I marvelled at the pictures of the girls in the weaving rooms—beautiful and free. One of them looked like Freya. I can’t escape.
Tuesday, 4 March
We dined at Luigj’s and went on to the Cafe Royal. It was busy, full of unfamiliar faces. Spotted and spoke briefly with Cyril and Jean who were with Lyman? Leland? [unidentified]. They left shortly after. Then Adrian Daintrey↓ came in with a party in evening dress—which included Virginia Woolf,↓ smoking a cigar.
≡ A painter friend of Duncan Grant.
≡ See The Diary of Virginia Woolf. Volume IV: 1931-5.
I let them have our table and during the general milling around that took place I introduced Freya to Woolf. ‘Are you two here alone?’ she said to Freya. ‘What a ghastly crowd. How it’s changed.’