Mercury and Me

by Jim Hutton

  Towards the end of the summer the problems with Freddie’s koi took a turn for the worse. His favourite fish, two feet long and deep golden yellow in colour, died. I rang the wholesaler and he returned, this time with a fish specialist. We all followed anxiously to see what the specialist would make of the problem.

  Without warning and right under Freddie’s nose, the chap slid his knife into the body of the dead fish, gutting it wide open, then said there was nothing wrong with it and tossed it aside. Freddie was distraught and furious at what he’d seen. Unable to offer remedies, the two men left. As the gate closed after them Freddie let fly at me, demanding that I quickly find a fish specialist who knew what he was doing.

  I phoned every vet in London and eventually found a man who worked for a vets’ group called the Ark. He came to the house and sedated some of the koi, examined their abrasions and gave them medication. And he also made some suggestions about what we could do to improve the quality of the water.

  More fish died the following Sunday, so in desperation I contacted London Zoo, but even they couldn’t help. Mike Moran eventually came to the rescue. He had a friend who kept koi and knew of a renowned koi specialist in London called Neil Porter, who was such a fanatic that he’d given up his GP’s practice to devote himself to them.

  I rang Neil at his home and explained the whole sorry story. Then I mentioned that the fish belonged to Freddie Mercury.

  ‘Freddie Mercury of Queen?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, I charge £60 for the call out fee,’ Neil said.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I replied. ‘When can you get here?’

  He said he’d try to make it that afternoon and, sure enough, he did. He arrived with his equipment, nets, waders and two sons, who were clearly keen fans of Freddie. Neil took fish from the water at random, examined them then took scrapings. These he placed under a microscope. Some, he discovered, were hosting parasites. I asked exactly what we could do to make the pool healthier.

  ‘To start with, your pond filter is useless,’ he said. ‘It’s not actually cleaning the bacteria from the pond.’

  He asked where we’d got the fish and I told him. ‘I see,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Well, the only thing I can suggest is that I come back tomorrow and take all the fish away to isolate and medicate them.’ Freddie agreed, and they were all sent away for months.

  While the fish were being treated I had to arrange for the new filter to be fitted and the pool to be modified.

  I consulted Freddie about it at each stage, explaining what had to be built or installed, but he was always the same about such things: if I was convinced something needed doing, then I didn’t have to ask him about it. ‘Fine,’ he answered. ‘Do it. Don’t tell me about it. If you think something needs doing, just do it.’

  Next to Garden Lodge was a small street, Logan Mews, and backing on to the wall to the right of the house were two small houses knocked into one with an adjoining garage. The houses had once belonged to Garden Lodge and Freddie had first refusal should the property ever come up for sale. That year the house went on the market for £300,000 or so. Freddie made the owner an offer he couldn’t refuse: he would pay the full price by cheque, but as soon as it was cleared he wanted immediate vacant possession.

  Freddie handed him the cheque with the memorable words: ‘Right, now fuck off.’

  No sooner had Freddie put many of the finishing touches to Garden Lodge than he started a whole new home-making project at Logan Mews. And so, suddenly the koi pool and the newly acquired mews house were both being gutted and refitted at the same time. Teams of architects moved in to plan the rebuilding. The Mews, as it became known, would be transformed from its dilapidated state into a smart new three-bedroomed guest house. It was clear that Freddie had many things he wanted to achieve before his illness caught up with him. He wanted to leave a little bit of paradise on Earth.

  He also decided to build a conservatory next to The Mews. He sketched out his ideas for an unusual double-domed building and commissioned a company to build it. They’d never seen anything like it, but agreed to make it exactly to Freddie’s specifications. It arrived in kit form, and when it was finished it looked wonderful.

  In September we returned to Pike’s, the secluded country hotel in Ibiza, for another holiday. We travelled in style, flying by private ten-seater jet. With us were Joe, Phoebe, Terry, Peter Straker and the Daily Express reporter David Wigg. Brian, Roger and John and their families were taking a holiday on the island at the same time.

  While in Ibiza, Freddie was due to celebrate his forty-first birthday and he planned an almighty bash at Pike’s, co-hosting the party with John Reid, whose birthday was a day or so later. The grateful Spanish government and its Olympic Committee, still humming Freddie’s ‘Barcelona’ anthem, were picking up some if not all of the tab.

  I don’t know if Freddie could swim. I certainly never saw him do so. He seemed afraid of the water. We went out on a boat trip with hotel owner Tony Pike one afternoon and I discovered that Freddie was quite nervous. As soon as we were under way, though, he forgot his worries about drowning and thoroughly enjoyed the day. To put him at his ease further, we opened a magnum of champagne.

  Back on shore, drama flared when Freddie discovered that John Reid was pulling out of the party. Freddie was furious. Special fireworks had been commissioned for the night and the grand finale was a vast firework frame which would light up with the words: ‘Happy Birthday Freddie and John’. Freddie ordered that preparations for the party should go ahead as planned, including arrangements to fly out eighty guests from London in a privately chartered DC9 and put them up in hotels all at Freddie’s expense. (Everyone had such a good time that it was said the flight over was almost as memorable as the party!)

  On the day of the party, as we lounged around the pool at Pike’s, John Deacon came to me. It was clear that Freddie was no longer able to hide the fact that he was becoming seriously ill. John had noticed some marks on Freddie’s leg, the only clue betraying his condition. John directly but discreetly asked me what they were. I passed them off as nothing of importance. ‘He’s allergic to the sun,’ I said, ‘they’re sunspots.’ It was left at that. I put a brave face on it and hid my feelings so that John would not suspect that something was wrong. From that birthday, I knew I was entering my final few years with Freddie.

  As well as the British guests imported especially, all of Ibiza turned up for that party. The grounds of the hotel were decorated in transparent coloured paper, running from the hotel courtyard via the buffet tables to the pool. That balmy night perhaps a thousand people poured into Pike’s to enjoy Freddie’s unstoppable hospitality. The heat played havoc with the Gaudi-inspired chocolate birthday cake – it had melted. Instead, an enormous flat cake was made which was so big it took six people to carry it. ‘Barcelona’ was emblazoned in giant letters across it.

  As the fireworks exploded overhead, each one was saluted in turn by the wildly appreciative crowd. Then at the end the final firework frame was detonated, revealing the shortened message ‘Happy Birthday Freddie’, and a deafening cheer went up.

  Freddie spent the first half of the party outside, mingling, but eventually he slipped back into the hotel to hold court in one of the drawing rooms, entertaining friends as they drifted in and out.

  The party was still in full swing when some bright spark almost caused catastrophe by setting fire to the coloured paper decorating the grounds. The stuff was highly flammable and soon a wall of fire shot between the pool and the forecourt, where I was standing. A great flame shot past my face. The fire was brought under control before anyone was injured and, with the exception of a bit of scorching to the hotel’s walls, no serious damage was done. I discovered later it was one of the British guests who had caused the fire. Freddie was very angry about it and took it as a personal insult that someone had behaved so badly.

  In Ibiza, Freddie gave one of his rare interviews to David Wi
gg of the Daily Express. When we got home Freddie saw Wigg’s article in the paper and sighed. ‘Look at this,’ he said, ‘I give them the cream of a story and what do they print? Sour milk.’ Wigg later apologised for the way the paper had used the interview, adding that once written it was out of his hands and an editor had chopped it around beyond recognition.

  Freddie was doing some chopping and changing too. The Mews was being completely transformed. He became preoccupied with how to decorate it. He decided on some antique ceramic tiles for one of the bathrooms, so we flew to Madrid on a last-minute shopping spree. We found an antique shop with some tiles on display, but Freddie couldn’t find what he was looking for.

  ‘Do you have any more?’ he asked the owner.

  ‘We’ve got floors of them,’ she said. She then escorted us to every floor, each stocked to the ceiling with tiles.

  When we got to the top floor, however, there was an entirely empty wood-panelled room. Freddie looked puzzled.

  The panelling contained a succession of doors and behind each one there were old master paintings. When the woman opened the door to reveal an El Greco, Freddie instantly fell in love with it. The picture was a portrait of a man, possibly a self-portrait, and it seemed to leap from the canvas.

  ‘Is it for sale?’ asked Freddie. Everything there was, including the panelling. The El Greco cost about £750,000, and Freddie wanted it. But he hit a stumbling block.

  ‘It’s catalogued by the government as a painting of national importance and cannot leave Spain,’ she said.

  Freddie came away disappointed. For days he talked of nothing but that painting, and back at Garden Lodge he contacted one of the Spanish Olympic organisers to see if there was any way he could pull a few strings to allow him to take the painting out of the country. However, he was told the rules could not be broken, even for him.

  But that wonderful El Greco picture wouldn’t go away. Freddie made a special trip back to Madrid to see it again and he became enamoured all over again. He looked at it in silence for about ten minutes. Then he looked at me.

  ‘Maybe I’ll just have to buy a house in Spain, so I can see it whenever I want,’ he said. As we flew home he seriously discussed this plan. A few days later he’d given up on the idea and set his sights on things he wanted to buy closer to home.

  In October Freddie and Montserrat Caballé released the ‘Barcelona’ single. The record company wanted to make a video to promote the single, so Montsy flew in for the filming session in London. On the day of the shoot Freddie’s white-cell count dropped dramatically and his doctors advised against him working. But Freddie felt time was of the essence and he was determined to get in as much work as possible before he was forced to give up; nothing was going to stop him making the video. He insisted on going ahead as planned.

  Freddie’s next solo project with Montsy, recording an entire album of new work together, gave him great strength. She’d fly in to London to join him in the studio for the odd afternoon or evening when her globe-trotting schedule of concerts allowed.

  Around October she came over on a flying visit with her assistant – her niece, also nicknamed Montsy. Freddie arranged to take the two Montserrats, me, Phoebe and Mike Moran for supper at the exclusive and ultra-expensive restaurant Maxim’s. But the restaurant did not live up to the occasion. Everything was wrong about it. It was so crowded it looked as if they’d started accepting coach parties. The background music was awful and very loud. And when Freddie ordered a bottle of the only stuff he liked – vintage Crystal champagne – they didn’t have any.

  During the evening, Freddie and Montsy Snr discussed the format of their album and planned when they could work together next. Freddie picked a day and she turned to Montsy Jnr.

  ‘Where am I supposed to be then?’ she asked.

  Montsy Jnr took out the diary, looked up the date, then said: ‘You’re in Russia giving a recital that evening.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. She looked at Freddie, flicked her wrist back and said: ‘Cancel it!’

  Freddie’s mouth fell open. ‘You can’t cancel,’ he said.

  ‘Yes I can,’ she said. And she did. Freddie was flabbergasted by her attitude and dined out on the story for months.

  A little later, after we’d finished eating, I was smoking and Montsy Snr leaned over to me.

  ‘Jim, can I have a cigarette?’ she asked. Freddie, still a smoker himself then, didn’t approve and he tried to intervene.

  ‘You mustn’t smoke – it will ruin your voice,’ he told her.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she said, lighting up. ‘I occasionally smoke.’

  Freddie found it difficult to believe an opera singer would risk her voice by smoking.

  Freddie’s collaboration with Montserrat Caballé was such an enormous success in charts all over the world that it caused her to be mobbed by Freddie’s fans. She told Freddie she was absolutely astounded by how well the record had done, and said that for the first time in her career she had been mobbed by screaming teenagers when she went through an airport.

  I went to Town House Studios many times to be with Freddie and Montsy while they were working on their album. Everyone else watched in raptures but, ever the Philistine, I got a little bored and sloped off to the kitchen for a drink. There I was introduced as ‘Freddie’s gardener’ to Martha Brett, one of the studio staff. She was a bubbly woman who I had met before a few times.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Jim?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I answered. ‘Let’s have a glass of wine.’

  One glass led to two, and two to three. Then we opened a second bottle. At some stage Terry ran into the room to find me.

  ‘There you are, Jim,’ he said. ‘Freddie’s looking for you.’

  ‘Tell him I’m down here with Martha,’ I demanded.

  ‘But he wants to go home,’ Terry explained.

  ‘Well, when I’m good and ready,’ I slurred. I was usually the one hanging around the studio waiting for Freddie; this time the roles were reversed. I carried on drinking with Martha. Half an hour later, Terry reappeared. Freddie was still waiting.

  ‘I’d better go this time, Martha,’ I said. Freddie wasn’t used to waiting for anyone, and I was surprised how he was becoming more patient. His illness was taking the drive out of him, out of being in control of those around him. Now he really needed us, he was less demanding.

  One night in the bedroom a week or so later Freddie and I argued about the wedding ring I had bought him. We had been out clubbing and his habit of hiding the ring from the people around him began to annoy me. He seemed too embarrassed to wear it, and I was beginning to feel like a part-time partner.

  ‘Every time you go out of the house you take the bloody thing off. Why?’ I said.

  Freddie said nothing and slipped the ring on. Then he kissed me and we got into bed. After that night Freddie always wore his wedding ring and it never came off his finger again, even when he washed.

  From then on the relationship felt on very solid ground, even though we still had our occasional minor quarrels. Whenever Freddie talked to me about Garden Lodge he always referred to our home, and he always told me he wanted me to feel it was as much mine as his.

  ‘It’s your home, too,’ he’d say.

  I’d agree with him for an easy life, but I don’t think I ever believed it. It was certainly our home while he was alive. I tried not to think what I’d do and where I’d live the day I found myself once more alone in the world without Freddie.

  As winter encroached towards the end of 1987, I started to find myself with little to do in the garden. Out of boredom one day in October I decided to take driving lessons. None of us at Garden Lodge drove because, with Terry around, we didn’t need to. I saw the idea as a challenge; a little diversion.

  I booked a trial two-hour lesson with the British School of Motoring in Kensington High Street and one morning, before anyone had stirred, I slipped out of the house.

  When Freddie got up he look
ed out of the window as usual, but couldn’t see me. He asked one of the cleaners: ‘Where is he?’ but she didn’t have a clue. He hated not knowing where everybody was at all times.

  When I finally walked through the gate, he was waiting.

  ‘Where the fuck were you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve decided to take driving lessons,’ I said.

  ‘What do you want driving lessons for?’ he asked.

  ‘No reason, really,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit of a challenge to get me out of the routine of gardening, gardening, gardening while it’s quiet. Besides, it’s nice to know that if I pass my test I’ll always have it.’

  He thought about my answers and gave his blessing to the seven weeks of lessons ahead of me.

  I don’t know what possessed him, but for Christmas 1987 Joe wanted to give Freddie two kittens. I think Freddie suggested to Joe that Garden Lodge was such a big place he wouldn’t mind a few new feline faces around the place to add to Oscar and Tiffany. And if one of them turned out to be a tortoiseshell, so much the better. As early as October Joe started searching for a tortoiseshell kitten, and the last port of call was the Blue Cross Animal Hospital in Victoria. He found two perfect kittens there, one with the right tortoiseshell markings, the other with a dark brown coat.

  Joe rang to say he was on the way by cab with the two kittens and Freddie started strutting around impatiently. They arrived at Garden Lodge in carriers and once Freddie saw them he was in love. The tortoiseshell was fat, fluffy and lovely, while the scrawny brown kitten was the sorriest of sights. And he had the puniest of squeaks.

  Freddie doted on the pair and after a few days named the tortoiseshell Delilah and, rather than the obvious Samson, the other one Goliath.

  ‘Goliath. It’ll fool everybody,’ he said. ‘They’ll automatically think Samson and Delilah.’

  One day he was working at Town House Studios, laying down tracks for the Barcelona album, when pandemonium broke out at Garden Lodge. Freddie treated the cats like his own children. He would constantly fuss over them, and if any of them came to any harm when Freddie was away, heaven help us. During the day the cats had the run of the house and grounds, and at night one of us would round them up and bring them inside. But that night Goliath was missing. Phoebe, Joe and I ran through the house looking for him, frantically opening cupboards and drawers. Then we combed the garden, but we couldn’t find him there either. We widened the search to the roads around the house. Still no Goliath.