A Hampshire Diary (4)
April 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.)
Sunday 2 April
Yeovil/Salisbury/Breamore
Fine and sunny – but looking forward to getting back and having some proper work to do. Lunch in the garden, with flutes of pink champagne. Dozed through Dorset and Wiltshire, at last looking springlike, and back in Breamore by 7, the sky perfectly light. A balmy evening, full of the scents of leaves and flowers and earth: wandered to the phone box later to let Jeremy know I was back – he reminded me that we have tickets for the London Book Fair tomorrow.
Monday 3
Breamore/London
J. picked me up around 8 and so to W. London by the usual route (M3, M4) – but today straight on to Kensington and the vast exhibition centre at Olympia. Pretty tight security going in as everyone still v. nervous re the Rushdie affair – I read somewhere that no one wanted the stand next to Penguin! The whole thing quite overwhelming, but I suppose illuminating as to the realities of the British and European publishing industry, here gathered in one place under the same arched iron-and-glass roof. The thing that struck me most, I suppose, was the number of small outfits I had never heard of – people publishing 10 or 12 titles a year on cats, vintage cars, or uniforms of the Civil War etc. This despite the much talked-about trend to consolidation among the major players – who were all here, with big flashy corporate stands. There was also a whole separate section for agents selling translation and film/tv rights. J. went to talk to people at Heinemann and his other contacts, leaving me to wander freely. I didn’t talk to anyone much but came away with armfuls of catalogues and promotional literature – so when it comes to applying I will at least know who the companies are, what they publish, names of their editorial team etc. J. and I had lunch (Italian) at one of the numerous cafes and left mid-afternoon, to avoid the rush. Home after 5. An interesting day but a slight sense of playing truant: back to the real grind tomorrow.
Tuesday 4
Breamore/Woodgreen
Walked in through cold dreary dripping weather and felt tired and chilled all day. J. showed me their new retriever puppy – bringing the number of dogs in the house to three – and also a letter from a certain Heidi Harraway, offering to do routine editorial tasks for free (she had read about his plight living in the cowshed &c [see Part 2 of this diary]). Otherwise it was back to the grindstone with a vengeance: through the Wadi Ais chapter again, working in some of my finds from the Col. Wilson papers . . . A lift home through pouring rain turning into sleet . . .
Saturday 8
Breamore/Salisbury
Had intended to make something of today, but up late feeling weary and good for little. So just up to Salisbury on the usual bus and around the usual shops and cafes . . . I was loafing around the market when the sun came out, for the first time in a week, but instead of doing me good it left me feeling small and grubby, like something you’d find under a stone. There were couples lounging and loitering, girls in pretty dresses – but, alas, I am not of their company, nor perhaps will ever be. I sat for a bit, in the park by the river, and began to feel it was almost possibly pleasant; then took some photos of the cathedral and the close, like any tourist . . . Sam [landlady] away in Pembrokeshire so the house quiet and empty, just me and the cat.
Sunday 9
Breamore/Whitsbury
A beautiful bright morning and somehow felt quite differently about everything. Took myself out for a walk mid-morning, at first into the village proper (Upper Street and Rookery Lane), its old barns and brick cottages steaming in the sun, then up the bridleway into Whitsbury Woods, where the bluebells were coming into their glory. Carried on uphill, past the stud farm and gallops, to Whitsbury church, which stands above and apart from the village among enormous trees; it is mainly flint, with a brickish tower, and an ancient almost prehistoric feel. I went inside and sat for a while, in the ancient must and gloom. From here a steep descent to the village and the long way back by the lanes, with dandelions thick on the banks. It was entirely delightful, in every way and at every turn. I got back around 2, then dozed deliciously after a big fry-up . . .
Monday 10
Breamore/Woodgreen
A very April day, with splashes of sun and a few heavy showers. I worked on with my notes, getting Lawrence to Akaba at last (almost feel I’ve travelled there with him); also listing documents for Leah [J’s elderly sometime research assistant] to check/consult at the PRO. Jeremy in an odd agitated mood, carrying on a mad row with his bank . . .
Tuesday 11
Wind and gales. Rang J. for a lift and it took me 25 minutes to get hold of him, another 30 for him to come: I could tell at once that something was wrong. He says he has come to the conclusion that the June 9th deadline is now actually impossible, whether we like it or not, and that everyone has to accept this. Accordingly, he rang Liz C. at Heinemann and dropped this bombshell – she very much not amused, and said she would talk to the higher-ups but the publishers had every right to hold him to the contract. J. remained very agitated for the rest of the day, talking endlessly about the various possible approaches to the problem . . . We eventually got down to work on the Akaba chapter at perhaps 12 but J. clearly finding it hard to concentrate. Things a little better after lunch, when we managed to get the preliminary section into some sort of shape. Home feeling tired and harassed. Cooked chicken in a too-rich sauce but at least I had some beer. Sam back from Wales.
Wednesday 12
Showery, with bright intervals. J. a little easier I thought: we reworked most of what we did yesterday and then pressed onward, with the first hellish stages of the Akaba journey. His agent, Poppy, rang after lunch to say that Helen Fraser, one of the big shots at Heinemann, had phoned and spoken to her in a mood of cold fury: they are not happy.
Friday 14
Breamore/Woodgreen/Salisbury/Yeovil
Grey heavy weather. The two of us struggled on with Ch. 19 – an utter beast but surely the most important chapter in the book, in terms of both the Arab campaign and Lawrence’s own trajectory. We dealt with Sykes’s cynicism, and the reactions of other British officers, all as part of the build up to Lawrence’s decision to ride north alone ‘hoping to get killed’. I’m sure we’re on the right track here, but we both felt tired and dull: a lengthy mid-afternoon tea break led to an argument about Europe – J is essentially a federalist – and I ended up leaving early.
Train from Salisbury in a fine evening light, with the Nadder valley almost unnaturally green and the first tiny lambs in the fields . . .
Tuesday 18
Breamore/Woodgreen
Worked on L’s northern ride, and rejigged the whole discussion around it. But still nothing from Metcalf [wealthy US collector offering to buy MS materials] and J increasingly anxious and lacking in concentration. Boldly he rang Liz C. after lunch, and Poppy, his agent – saying he’s pretty sure that he can finish by the end of June, but only if they stump up more in the way of advance, so he doesn’t have to take on any paid work in the interim. Which shows an admirable chutzpah and ability to turn a crisis to his advantage, if it comes off . . .
Again, dead tired in the evening. Walked under starry skies to the phone box – but shocked to find it vandalised. (Out here! With barely a house for miles!) . Happily, I had the wit to buy a bottle of Cabernet from the shop at lunch, so there was at least that. Slept rather well.
Wednesday 19
We worked on through L’s meeting with Nuri Shalaan – a grim business and something no other biographer has picked up on (L’s apparent pledge submitting himself to dreadful retribution if the Brits did not keep faith). Finally, and at last, the triumphal entry to Akaba.
In all this J. determined to force the pace, for obvious reasons, but it’s making him tetchy and obtuse: just hope we don’t have to rush the rest of the book too much. Some fine sunshine at lunch, so walked to Hale Purlieu to look at the woods and the heath while taking some deep breaths . . .
To add to the apocalyptic mood, there was suddenly thunder and lightning, with hail rattling down the chimneys – the latter sending Dodge the labrador howling mad.
Thursday 20
J. drove up at 7.30, as planned, but then changed his mind about going to London as there is a tube strike. So we just went up to the office and had a leisurely coffee – which turned out to be the calm before the storm. First, a fax from Metcalf in California – saying that he will probably be interested in acquiring the letters one day, but has no plans to buy at the moment. Which doesn’t help us one jot. J. immediately onto Liz at Heinemann, who says that it is very unlikely there will be any more money from them and that the June 9 deadline is absolutely non-negotiable for the main text (although there could be some flexibility re the endnotes and appendices etc.). For the first time voices were raised and legal jeopardy was mentioned – J saying that he will claim force majeure, as included in the contract. The whole thing v. upsetting and J. left quite shaken. He then rang Poppy, who said that Helen Fraser was quite unmoveable: there would be no money from Heinemann and no extension to the deadline. J. said that if it came to it, he would deal with the last five years of Lawrence’s life in as many paragraphs: ‘and then he fell off his bike and died’ . . . I just kept my head down and plugged away at the endnotes, tho’ quite upset myself: it seems as if the whole project is now imploding . . . To add to the apocalyptic mood, there was suddenly thunder and lightning, with hail rattling down the chimneys – the latter sending Dodge the labrador howling mad. Home after 5 and collapsed with a beer.
Friday 21
Breamore/Woodgreen/Salisbury/Yeovil
Bright fine weather but morale still very low; in truth, my only ambition is to get through the working day and put myself on a train home. Started to compile Chapter 20 endnotes, then through 19 again making detailed suggestions . . . J. still very sore, saying that if the book is published in a poor state he won’t go to the launch or do publicity – might even go to the press.
Drank a beer on the train, watching Wiltshire and Dorset go by in a sort of trance, the hawthorn just breaking into flower. Home to find my birthday presents all laid out on the bed.
Sunday 23
Yeovil/Salisbury/Breamore
A fine spring day for my ‘official’ birthday. Dad painting scenery at the Swan (Amadeus), Mum pottering in the house and garden. Did presents before lunch . . . from parents a watch but also a big gorgeous hardback of Cezanne, with selections from his letters. I think this is almost certainly the most beautiful thing I own and the best present I have ever had (at least since Uncle Ted bought me a huge toy tractor aged 3 or 4). It must be the most expensive Cezanne book on general sale but M. said she ‘wouldn’t give the others house room’ after seeing this one . . . Steaks for lunch with a very good wine. Then just dozed and gloated over my book until was time to get the train back to – whatever the week brings.
Tuesday 25
Woodgreen/Breamore
Worked on steadily, getting onto the Chapter 21 material by lunch (the first Syrian campaign). A letter came from Helen Fraser, firm on money matters and deadlines but a great deal better in tone – no mention of legal penalties or the like. Liz C. also wrote, saying that she ‘loved’ Ch. 19 (as she should: it is outstanding). But before J could take any satisfaction in either came the news that Macolm Brown’s shoddy little book on Lawrence has been shortlisted for the NCR nonfiction book awards! I don’t think I have ever seen him look so sick – he seemed to turn physically grey. He always saw Brown’s book as a cheap rip-off, and the idea that it might now upstage his own work seemed to hit him harder than anything in the last fortnight . . .
Sam out in the evening. I drank wine and watched some grim drama about a concentration camp . . .
Wednesday 26
Tired and a little hungover: just plugged on with the first Syrian campaign . . . Shortly after lunch J came to me with a weary smile to announce that the money problem may have been resolved: Curtis Brown, his agents, have agreed to fund the completion of the book in the form of an advance against Heinemann’s payment on delivery. So all we have to do now is finish the bloody thing! J drove me home later, in the rain, cursing Heinemann and Helen Fraser that such a thing should ever have been necessary.
Sunday 30
Breamore
Grey and cold, with a continual threat of rain. Did little except read, recuperate and listen to Joan Baez (I find I have a love-hate thing with her voice). Sam out most of the day, so watched rubbish TV in her room. Later walked out for air, through deep-hedged lanes to Breamore Marsh, where the geese were noisily grazing, a few drifting solitary on the ponds and streams. Back in seeping dusk for a boozy supper.
The earlier parts of this diary can be read here, here, and here.
(More to come . . . )