A Hampshire Diary (3)
March 1989
In my late twenties I worked for two years (1987-89) as a research and editorial assistant to the historian Jeremy Wilson, then grappling with the last stages of his great authorized biography of T. E. Lawrence. Lately, for reasons I do not wholly understand, I have found my mind circling back repeatedly to this interlude, which now seems to mark the end of youth: after almost 40 years, the episode has the oddness and intensity of a dream.
This may owe something to the work, which was all-absorbing if sometimes a grim slog; but other factors certainly came into it. Throughout this time I lived a strangely cut-off, almost monastic existence in the depths of rural Hampshire: lodging at an old cottage in the feudal village of Breamore, with its Jacobean mansion and tiny Saxon church; and walking the two or three miles daily to work at Woodgreen, an even smaller place on the edge of the New Forest. As I knew no one and had no transport, long walks on the downs or into the forest became my chief form of solace.
I also kept a detailed diary, some at least of which seems worth sharing. Here — over six or seven posts — are a series of entries from the last months of the project, when the struggle to complete the book became most intense and fraught. (Many private matters have been omitted, and the identity of private persons has generally been disguised.)
Saturday 4 March
Breamore/Salisbury/Wilton
Set off for Wilton to see the extraordinary Italianate church there – as glimpsed so tantalisingly from the train to and from Yeovil, the campanile peering out of trees like some shy, long-legged bird. Midday bus to Salisbury, and then another to Wilton, two or three miles on the main road. Strolled a little round the town, with its two rivers, and the famous carpet factory, and the even more famous House (Herberts and Sidneys), before going up to the church. Which was locked. But there was a window, and the interior lit, so it was possible to peer down the nave at the gorgeous Byzantine mosaics and stained glass in the apse. So it didn’t feel like an entirely wasted journey. Likewise wandered up to the visitors’ entrance and peered through the triumphal archway at the North Front of Wilton House – still in private ownership, I think. After all this gawping, a ploughman’s at a busy unfriendly pub where the locals seemed to be gawping at me, as if trying to figure or stare me out: let them. Back in Salisbury by 2, a walk up Fisherton St for train times, and then evensong in the cathedral . . .
Wednesday 8
Breamore/Woodgreen
Keen to finish the Ch. 17 notes but got stuck on the exact date of TEL’s departure for Wadi Ais – March 9 or 10? Plunged into the diary notebooks trying to figure it out. Jeremy left for London at lunch, to meet St John Armitage, the Arabist: the two of them will lead a party of Jordanian notables around the exhibition this afternoon [National Portrait Gallery Lawrence exhibition, 1988-89].
Bright and fine at lunch so walked in Godshill Inclosure – but the main ride intolerably muddy after rain and the wood thick and tangled where I tried to cut through. Eventually got to the Castle Hill road and walked back that way, the river flashing blue between trees.
Worked systematically through L’s notebooks in the afternoon, which was tough going as the writing is so hard to decipher . . . At some point a fax came through from Metcalf, the American collector, offering to buy a tranche of J’s manuscript materials: I showed it to N. [Jeremy’s wife] who smiled for what feels like the first time in weeks.
Other correspondents are apparently just bonkers, such as the guy who repeatedly writes requesting a signed photo of Sir Oswald Mosely (‘I am sure you will have one somewhere’)
Saturday 11
Breamore/Salisbury/London
Cold and dull but at least dry: 9.20 from Salisbury to arrive in London mid-morning. I wanted to see the NPG exhibition again before it closes (tomorrow), having been so feverish on opening night that I barely took anything in. Simon B. [old college friend] said he wouldn’t mind seeing it too, so we met in Trafalgar Square. Walking round the exhibits once more, it struck me how beautifully the whole thing had been put together: from childhood memorabilia (the velvet suit L. wore as a boy), through archaeology and the war (L’s robes, silver canteen and Lee Enfield rifle; also fragments of the Hejaz railway with modern photos of the trains he wrecked, still extant and unrusted in the desert), to the postwar years and finally the great gleaming beast of a Brough that killed him. Only the bibliographical stuff (7 Pillars) a bit dull. There were fine portraits of Arab and British notables by Augustus John, Eric Kennington etc – although SB drew the line at William Roberts, whose late (tubular) style appalled him!
A quick lunch then back to his, where I will stay while putting in a couple of days at the PRO.
B. was in voluble mood, talking mainly about his job at Conservative Central Office, which he’s not enjoying. One of his tasks is to reply to members of the public, many of whom write in with their with their own modest policy proposals, e.g. that the methadone given to heroin addicts might be laced with something ‘to put them out of their misery’. Other correspondents are apparently just bonkers, such as the guy who repeatedly writes requesting a signed photo of Sir Oswald Mosely (‘I am sure you will have one somewhere’). Replies must be polite enough not to alienate a potential voter, without giving any hostages to fortune, just in case the letters come from agents provocateurs for Labour or the other parties. Simon also said there had been a lot of ‘expectations management’ (i.e. lying) with regard to the contents of next week’s Budget – he seems to half admire the practice of these dark arts, while also retaining a good deal of his old moral squeamishness. Is having to work a good deal with ———— who he clearly doesn’t like at all – a very clever but strangely bitter and unpleasant man . . .
After about ten cups of tea B. took me out for a quick tour of the Docklands development, a scene of almost lunar desolation in the greying of the afternoon. Some of the old wharfs etc. left standing but much levelled flat and the skeletons of the new behemoths beginning to emerge. B. no fan of modernist grands projets but seems stirred by the audacity. Local opinion is largely hostile. On a corrugated iron fence someone had painted a quote from ‘Ozymandias’ in foot-high letters: ‘Look upon my Works, ye Mighty, and Despair!’.
Sunday 12
London
A lazy morning with the Sunday papers, during which Simon prepared a roast lunch for the household: Jim S. and Gerry H. are lodging with him for the moment. Much talk of politics and especially Europe – S. still ecstatic over Thatcher’s Bruges speech (‘That’s why we voted for her! To confront French socialists, in Belgium, and insult them to their faces!’). I felt conscious of being the only faintly leftish person there until, out of the blue, Andrew Adonis appeared and accepted a cup of coffee. I had not seen him for (?) three years and he seemed different: more confident, assertive and witty – in a word, less nerdy. He even seems to stand and walk differently! Is now a city councillor in Oxford and has been awarded a fellowship at Nuffield. A. announced himself a ‘proud Euro-fanatic’ (as did Gerry) and B. was put on the back foot, at least temporarily. I suppose I am Euro-sceptic, but with none of B’s ravening Europhobia.
In the evening B and I for supper with his friend Nate J., who I met once before: he has a place somewhere on the border of Kensington and Notting Hill – an old, high-ceilinged flat in a mansion block, at once both posh and slightly shabby. He is an artist and I think some sort of dealer: creates meticulous copies of Old Master paintings for rich patrons. But looking at the flat, there must be family money somewhere. He made gazpacho and opened some extremely good wine, which we drank with cheese . . .
Monday 13
Up at 7 then out into a fine bright morning with cutting winds. DLR to Tower Hill (about 30 mins), sitting opposite a guy in a suit who was also carrying, inexplicably, a full-length wooden sword. Had never experienced the morning rush hour and it is quite something . . . Finally got to the PRO in Richmond about 10. Saw Leah [Jeremy’s elderly sometime rearch assistant] briefly, then got stuck into FO 686 (Col. Wilson papers) on film . . . Felt generally tired and ineffective and left before 5. An hour or more to kill so tube to Westminster and over to the South Bank, with the sun setting portentously behind the H of P and the river beautiful with its freight of reflected lights. Browsed a while in the RFH bookshop – a new edition of Modern Painters – then rushed through the rush hour to meet SB at Sloane Square c. 7. He talked about his day, writing a brief for the Home Affairs Committee in the House etc. Back on the Isle of Dogs we bought food at the little Aldi, which seems to be the only shop for miles, and had a big mixed grill of belly pork etc. . . . A lot of tired chat, including B. on his deeply reactionary views of 19th century history, in which Bismarck, Metternich and even Lord Eldon (!) are the heroes and Napoleon the arch-villain.
Did my usual thing of waving down the bus, like some lone castaway desperately signalling to a distant ship – today it sped past oblivious
Tuesday 14
London/Salisbury/Breamore
Again up at 7, PRO by 10. Feeling quite grimy and exhausted but slogged manfully on with the microfilm; nothing of great interest but at this stage that’s something of a relief . . . Left well before 5 and tube to Embankment. Rather madly, I decided to walk up the C. Cross Road in search of books despite the now fierce rain; quickly soaked through but worth it I suppose, as I found the Dylan day-by-day chronology in Waterstones (Clinton Heylin, £12.95) . . . A dreary journey back from Waterloo, in the rainy dark, but at least I had the book for company. Rather to my surprise, J. met me at Salisbury and so back to Breamore through the driving storm – he is clearly not well. Home by about 8.30 but it felt like 3 in the morning.
Friday 17
Breamore/Woodgreen/Salisbury/Yeovil
Bright, with cold snitty winds. More typing and sorting of notes and checking against the files – then a few hours’ work with J, who seemed better but still tired and grumpy. We agreed on a proper break over Easter . . . Finished early and a plod home in nasty dusk. Did my usual thing of waving down the bus, like some lone castaway desperately signalling to a distant ship – today it sped past oblivious but then stopped maybe 100 yards down the road. Which means I got the 7.40 from Salisbury and so Yeovil by 9 . . . Looking forward to ten days of home comforts and even please God a touch of spring.
Sunday 26
Yeovil/Charlton Mackrell/West Lydford
Easter Sunday, and suddenly bright and fine. Listened to Easter music on R3 then read bits of Ruskin etc. in the garden while parents worked tidying and pruning. Little David N. came to play and I ran him around the garden paths in a wheelbarrow, causing much merriment and delight.
Lunch, then out to see the gardens at Lytes Carey – but closed, so on to the next little village of Charlton Mackrell and had a walk there. The church a mix of hamstone and blue lias, with carved angels leaning out reproachfully from the roof beams: the chancel radiant with lilies and daffodils and there were a couple of very pretty girls, almost angelic themselves in summer dresses and the dance of light from the stained glass. As it was so very pleasant, we drove on through inexplicable lanes to Butleigh and Baltonsborough, and then over Pennard Hill, with wide views of the levels and Mendips. Coming back we stopped at West Lydford, a tiny place on the Brue, with a weir and ancient stone bridge – the church framed by enormous weeping willows and held quietly in the stillness of the pool: Platonic England.
Roast duck with carrots and cabbage etc. Light till almost 8.
Wednesday 29
Yeovil
Decided the time had come to sort out all my M. Phil papers, so got down to it and stuck at it quite doggedly all day. I think just about enough time has passed for me to look at this stuff without pain, but the feeling of waste is still immense: I worked hard (on and off), read prodigiously, had some genuinely good ideas – but somehow couldn’t pull it all together. Parts of the thesis read well, I thought. But it’s all behind me now, thank God.
The earlier parts of this diary can be read here and here.
(More to come . . . )