Wonderful Tonight: George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Me

by Pattie Boyd

  I never knew how many people I was feeding, but we had some great dinner parties, George seemed to love my food, there would be plenty of wine, and afterward everyone would sit around and smoke dope. From time to time there might be some cocaine, which had crept into our repertoire. George developed an interesting and extreme relationship with it. He was either using it every day or not at all for months at a stretch. Then he would be spiritual and clean and would meditate for hour after hour, with no chance of normality. During those periods he was totally withdrawn and I felt alone and isolated. Then, as if the pleasures of the flesh were too hard to resist, he would stop meditating, snort coke, have fun, flirting and partying. Although it was more companionable, there was no normality in that either.

  I think owning that huge house and garden created confusion in him. It was a constant reminder of how rich and famous he was, and that gave him a sense of power, but in his heart he knew was just a boy from Liverpool who was extremely talented and had got lucky. He had embraced spirituality with an obsessive intensity, yet he wanted to experience everything he had missed by becoming famous so young. He once told me that he felt something in life was evading him. But he wouldn’t—perhaps couldn’t—go out and be normal.

  I remember Boo once asking George if he wanted to go to the pub for a drink. The guys who protected him froze; George never went to the pub. “No,” I said. “George never goes to the pub because of the Beatlemania.”

  Boo said, “Come on, he’s got to be able to go to the pub. How else does he enjoy himself?”

  And George said, “All right,” and off they went. He wasn’t mobbed and he had a really good time. It was the first time he had done anything so normal for years.

  George really didn’t like going out—he hated being recognized—so we stayed in that great house and became gradually detached from reality. We didn’t listen to the radio because George wouldn’t let us, and we didn’t have newspapers, and the people who came to see us were either musicians or worked for Apple.

  In Esher everything had been easy, relaxed, and fun, but in Friar Park it was different. Maybe there was just too much to do, but the house and the garden became an obsession with George. He found out everything there was to know about Sir Frank Crisp, how and why he built that extraordinary house and garden, why he wanted to re-create the Blue Grotto of Capri and build a mini Matterhorn in the Oxfordshire countryside. He wanted to get inside Sir Frank’s mind and fit into his old boots, and he seemed to want to do it alone. I can be obsessive, but then I get bored and need a change. George stayed with it, and his obsession grew. Also, it wasn’t me he wanted to discuss his ideas for the garden with: it was Terry. He gave me a little area to work on where I did lots of planting, but I didn’t feel included in his thinking or his plans. I wasn’t his partner in anything anymore.

  It was the same with the spirituality. He had left me behind—or maybe I had chosen to be left behind. I didn’t want to chant all day. George did it obsessively for three months, then went crazy. He wanted to reach the spiritual place to which he aspired, but the pleasures of the flesh were too tempting. Derek Taylor was on a plane with George, who was chanting in his seat when a stewardess asked if he’d like a glass of wine. Furious at the intrusion, George told her to “Fuck off.”

  Ravi Shankar was a frequent visitor. George adored him, so when Ravi asked if his nephew Kumar Shankar could come to stay the answer was “Yes.” But Kumar didn’t know whether he should be helping in the garden or giving the engineer a hand in the studio, so one day George must have said, “Why don’t you cook some dal or something?” Kumar cooked and that night produced the most wonderful Indian meal. From then on he took over in the kitchen. George, of course, loved everything to do with India, so this was his idea of heaven. Once when Mummy was staying with us and George emerged from his studio, she said, “You must be hungry, darling. Let me make you an omelet.” He told her, yes, he was hungry, but he didn’t want an omelet: “Kumar is going to cook me an Indian meal.”

  I felt crushed. He had taken away my one pleasure, the one thing that made me feel I had done something worthwhile with my day, something creative—which, since I was surrounded by musicians all the time, was an important part of my self-esteem. I felt that in depriving me of the satisfaction of cooking for him and his friends, he was telling me, in a roundabout way, that he didn’t want me around.

  George also had a secretary called Doreen. She didn’t live at Friar Park and I can’t remember where she came from, but she was in the house every day. She and Kumar were friends and they would go out together on their days off. She dismissed me, ignored what I said, treated me as if I was a nobody in my own home and my wishes and opinions were insignificant. It was uncomfortable to be in my own house and know that two other people, who were there all the time, one living in it, didn’t like me. But it was not a conversation I could have with George: we didn’t communicate on any level anymore. He was surrounded by yes-men. When I challenged him about it he said, “Well, I’d hate to be surrounded by no-men.”

  There is no doubt that he was going through a difficult time. Having had such a structured life as a Beatle, he was on his own and uncertain of what the future might hold. When he eventually decided to do an album, which was All Things Must Pass, he was nervous about it—but he didn’t talk to me. He went to Chris O’Dell and Terry. Terry became our go-between. I confided in Terry too. We were living in a surreal world with a very creative and eccentric person. Between ourselves we referred to George as Geoffrey; then we could discuss him freely and no one would know whom we were talking about. To gauge his mood, we would ask whether his hands were “in or out of the bag”—meaning his prayer bag. If they were in it, he was in spiritual mode and incommunicado; if they were out, there was a chance of talking to him.

  When All Things Must Pass was released in America, George and I went to New York and stayed for about five weeks. There, we saw Paul and Linda, who were also making a record. We went on to stay with Bob Dylan, his wife, and five children at their country house in Woodstock, two hours from New York. It was early November and the autumn colors were glorious—reds and golds, oranges and yellows. The last time I had met Bob had been at Kinfauns, the summer of 1969, when he had been in England to play at the Isle of Wight festival—pop festivals were new at that time—and was coming to supper in Esher the night before. Terry and I had prepared a great feast, David and Boo were there, and several other people.

  George had gone to meet Bob at the airport but his plane was late and he had to go straight to the Isle of Wight. We were so disappointed but he phoned the next morning and told us to join him there, so we set off—George, me, Terry, and Mal, the roadie—and caught the ferry from Southampton. Bob, his wife Sara, Al Aronowitz (who had introduced Bob to the Beatles on the famous night he turned them on to marijuana), and the Band met us; they were staying in some grand house and we were in a hotel where there was a tennis court. Having been on my school’s team, I suggested we play. Bob said, “Yeah, that’s a great idea,” and everyone played together, which meant about seven people on each side of the net.

  Bob had done little performing since a motorcycle accident two years before, and as I watched him onstage he looked a little fragile. Afterward he came back to Esher with us so David and Boo got their autographs after all.

  While we were in New York we went to a couple of big dinner parties, to George’s horror and my delight. One was given by Ahmet Ertegun, the cofounder of Atlantic Records, the other was given by Robert Stigwood. George hated parties unless they were exclusively for his friends. Put me into a room full of people and I come to life. Sometimes George and I, both Pisceans, were like the symbolic fish swimming in opposite directions. George seemed torn between the deep beneath us and the glitter on the surface, and I was so dazzled by what sparkled above that I couldn’t look down for fear of what might be lurking there.

  From New York we flew to Jamaica—just the two of us for a change. We had planned
originally to go to Los Angeles but a New York journalist had warned George against it. Charles Manson’s trial was under way and his defense team was claiming that Manson had been influenced by the Beatles’ music. So we went to Jamaica and it was a disaster from the start, beginning with the smallpox problem. Immigration then said, probably because we were white, British, long-haired, and had money, that we had to report back to Montego Bay two days later, a journey of seventy miles, to see someone from the Tourist Board. There was no explanation. The man just said, “That’s what I say.” As I told my diary, “There were such bad vibes everywhere. We stayed in a hugely expensive hotel at Frenchman’s Cove. It rained every day except one.”

  Our room, which came with a butler and a maid, was in one of about a dozen bungalows in the grounds and we were given a little golf cart to get to and from the main building. After dinner we would go back to our bungalow and George would play his guitar. One night when it was raining I walked outside and recorded it all—the sound of him playing, and the sound of the rain and the jungle and the noises of the night. It was an amazing combination.

  The next time I heard from Eric was in January when he wrote to me from a cottage at Llanddewi Brefi in Wales; it had been two months since he had walked out, vowing to take the heroin. On the title page from a pocket-sized copy of the novel Of Mice and Men, he’d written:

  dear layla

  for nothing more than the pleasures past i would sacrifice my family, my god, and my own existence, and still you will not move. i am at the end of my mind, i cannot go back and there is nothing in tomorrow (save you) that can attract me beyond today. i have listened to the wind, i have watched the dark brooding clouds, i have felt the earth beneath me for a sign, a gesture, but there is only silence. why do you hesitate, am i a poor lover, am i ugly, am i too weak, too strong, do you know why? if you want me, take me, i am yours…

  if you don’t want me, please break the spell that binds me.

  to cage a wild animal is a sin, to tame him is divine.

  my love is yours.

  It was signed with a heart.

  It was the same distinctive handwriting with no capital letters.

  That one short note stirred up feelings I had spent two months suppressing. I wrote and told him what he wanted to hear.

  How are you? I hope the Welsh air has been soothing your mind and warming your heart. Oh, I so long to spend some time with you there…it would be beautiful to be together, just for a while.

  If the stars should suddenly change their course and I can come to Wales I’ll send a telegram. Please write to me and let me know how long you will be there and at Glyn [Lord Harlech’s house]. Please take care of yourself.

  Moons full of love

  L

  Magnificent is space today!

  Cast bridle, spurs and reins away

  And let us race on steeds of wine

  To skies enchanting and divine!

  As though two angels overcome

  By fever’s wild delirium,

  Through morning skies of limpid blue,

  Let us that far mirage pursue!

  Gentle the winging of our flight

  As we the cunning whirlwinds ride

  In rapturous and shared delight.

  CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

  As soon as I had posted the letter I had terrible doubts and immediately wrote a postcard. It simply said,

  Hullo,

  Please forgive and forget my bold suggestion.

  Love L

  His reply came by return of post on the dust jacket of a book of Scottish ballads and was written in green ink. My letter had come as a nice surprise, he said, but

  now that i have been here for a week my expectations (fantasies if you like) have gradually withdrawn into themselves to await a period of greater comfort, perhaps? my dear one, i would not dream of asking you down here now that i have uncovered the full portent of such an existence.

  The cottage, he said, was damp and primitive and his vain attempts at lighting a fire would only have warmed a quarter of the room.

  bold suggestions indeed, hah! it was rather significant that i received both communications on the same morning. something like watching a boomerang in flight.

  He said he understood my situation and didn’t know what to recommend. Then, portentously,

  i don’t think, even if we were the last ones left alive, that you could be happy with me, and as for me i think i am content to remain alone until someday i am free to be discovered…

  i love you even though you’re chicken.

  p.s. baudelaire too, was ultimately a pesimist [sic].

  p.p.s. the thing about pessimism is that in most cases it’s nothing more than a front behind which a body can hide its most sweet yet painful hopes. please forgive mine

  Nothing came of our fantasies and I didn’t see or speak to him again until August 1971. George had persuaded him to come out of Hurtwood Edge briefly to perform in the concert for Bangladesh that he had organized in Madison Square Garden, New York. Ravi Shankar had inspired it. He had told George about the catastrophe in Bangladesh: three million people had been killed in the war with Pakistan and ten million had fled to India, where they were starving. He said he was thinking of doing a concert to raise $25,000 for the UNICEF fund to help the refugees and asked whether George might be able to help. George was immediately fired up and, with the Beatles’ ethos that “if you’re going to do something, you might as well do it big and make a million” still pumping in his veins, decided to stage a major extravaganza—the first-ever pop concert for charity. With the help of an Indian astrologer to select the most favorable day, he settled on August 1 as the most favorable day for him to make a major impact. He then rang his friends and pulled together the most incredible collection of musicians—Bob Dylan, Ringo Starr, Leon Russell, Billy Preston, Ravi Shankar, and Eric Clapton.

  George knew that Eric was in a bad way but his addiction was unspoken. He thought that if he got him onstage, even propped up with drugs, it would become an open secret and maybe he would open the door a little to his friends, who might be able to help. But everyone knew that if Eric was to have a chance of getting through two performances, one in the afternoon and another that evening, he would need a supply of heroin when he arrived in New York—obviously he couldn’t travel with it. I remember discussions about finding a really good one for him, called White Elephant. It had to be very pure because he never injected—he was terrified of needles—always snorted it, as if it was cocaine, from a gold spoon he wore around his neck.

  Alice found it. She always did the scoring, as she did everything Eric wanted. At Hurtwood Edge, she went to London to do the sordid business of getting supplies while Eric stayed at home. If ever they ran short, she would give him her share and take something else. She was drinking at least two bottles of vodka a day so he could have the heroin, yet he would accuse her of doing the reverse.

  That day he and I scarcely spoke. He was surrounded by people, then onstage, and he was very out of it; I am not sure he really saw me. It was a shock to think that he had done this to himself because of me. At first I felt guilty, then my feelings would swing violently the other way and I was angry that he should have put me in the impossible position where I had to choose between him and my husband.

  When the concert was over Eric and Alice went back to the horrors of their self-imposed prison at Hurtwood Edge and took up where they had left off. Once again they closed the doors on their friends and the world and left the phones to ring unanswered.

  Alice’s father and Pete Townshend of the Who eventually got through to Eric and persuaded him to seek treatment. David Harlech must have been worried sick about his daughter but he had been incredibly supportive and patient throughout the three years of Alice and Eric’s addiction. And Pete Townshend had been the only friend who had refused to take no for an answer and been to the house so often that eventually Eric had seen him. If anyone else managed to get in, Eric had hidden upst
airs. But Eric confided in Pete, and as good as asked for help.

  David Harlech suggested that Townshend put together a charity concert in London. Eric was again persuaded to perform, alongside Townshend and Ronnie Wood (guitars), Rick Grech (bass), Steve Winwood (keyboards), and Jim Capaldi (drums), all friends. He didn’t look well: his addict’s diet of junk food and chocolate had made him put on weight.

  I was sitting in the audience at the Rainbow, Finsbury Park, with George, Ringo, Klaus Voormann, Elton John, Rory Gallagher, Joe Cocker, Jimmy Page, and Ahmet Ertegun. As I heard the opening wail of “Layla,” which was the first number of the evening, then the lyrics, my blood ran cold. He might have been wrecked for the last three years, but he hadn’t forgotten how to tear at the heart-strings with his guitar. All the emotion I had felt for him when he disappeared from my life welled up inside me. The show, billed as his comeback, was a triumph.

  The Rainbow concert reminded Eric there was an alternative to his life as an addict, but it was still another year before he agreed to accept treatment. David Harlech persuaded him to see Dr. Meg Patterson, who specialized in heroin addiction and practiced what she called neuro-electric therapy, which involved sticking things like acupuncture needles into the earlobe and passing an electrical current through them. She came to Hurtwood Edge initially, then he stayed with her and her family at their house in Harley Street while the treatment lasted.

  Four weeks later, he went to spend a month farming with Frank Ormsby-Gore in Oswestry. They became very good friends and the physical outdoor work did him a power of good. He was mucking out, baling hay, chopping logs, sawing trees, and soon he was tanned, fit, and ready to take on the world. However, he and Frank also went to the local pub and became drinking companions. Eric went straight from heroin to alcohol.

  I had met Meg Patterson soon after Eric finished his treatment, and she had warned me that this might happen. I didn’t notice the problem immediately. When he returned from Wales he became a regular visitor to Friar Park and professed his love for me with increasing vigor. Letters arrived almost daily, in which he pleaded with me to leave George and come to him.