A Hampshire Diary (5)
May 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.)
Monday 1 May
Breamore/Woodgreen
Bank holiday but worked as agreed. Jeremy has drawn up a ferocious-looking schedule that will enable us to finish in early June, if stuck to. It specifies exactly what needs to be done, and by whom, for every morning, afternoon and evening for the next five weeks. I wonder how long it will hold! Also read the chapter J. did over the weekend – TEL in Plymouth, 1929: it was fine . . . We worked on the first post-war chapter again, pushing through to the end, as the schedule demands.
Saturday 6
Breamore/Salisbury/London
Cooler than yesterday. Bus to Salisbury quite early, as anxious to find a birthday present for P. [brother] en route: turned out I was in luck, as found a large framed print of Paul Klee’s ‘Temple Gardens’ in a sale . . . The only problem then being to wrangle the unwieldy thing across London on tube and train (Marylebone/Waterloo/Waterloo East/Greenwich). Luckily their flat not too far from the station – a decent-sized place, off the main road, above a hairdressers . . .
The picture went down very well, as they don’t have a lot of decor: noticed that C. [other brother] had also bought him a Klee print, but smaller than mine and unframed – which made me feel awkward, so I started to say how fortunate I was to find it in a sale – which then seemed like the wrong thing to say, too.
P. suggested that as part of my present we could go to see something at the theatre, so after a quick flick through the guides we settled on The Black Prince at the Aldwych – Iris Murdoch’s adaptation of her own novel. The matinee at five, so barely time for a cup of tea before it was back on the train. The A. an Edwardian Theatre not far off the Strand, very ornate inside but quite small and cramped. It was a good show, with Ian McDiarmid in the lead and John Fortune in one of the smaller roles: typical Murdoch I suppose, being a mix of perverse psychological thriller and black farce with long disquisitions on language, identity, and the character of Hamlet. Strolled through Covent Garden afterwards and ate at an Italian place in Soho – London at its most alluring, with the happy bustle of crowds on a cool, light, almost-summer evening.
Sunday 7
London/Salisbury/Breamore
A lazy morning with coffee, papers etc. Later strolled over Blackheath Common and back through Greenwich Park, with the cherry trees in full delectable bloom – the blossom looking almost edible. The usual talk about work, family, politics. P. evidently delighted to show off his new domain – a short climb to the Observatory giving views right across London, including the ongoing Docklands development across the river. On the Salisbury train c. 3: read the TLS, which included a review of last night’s show by A. S. Byatt (she liked it).
Monday 8
Breamore/Woodgreen
Warm and fine. J. seemed better than Friday but unsurprisingly tired . . . A little alarmingly, he told me that he will probably have to ‘let me go’ as soon as the book is completed in June; of course, I knew that was coming at some point, but have been finding it hard to think beyond the current schedule. He showed me a job advert in the new Bookseller – for an editorial assistant at OUP – and suggested I freshen up my CV tonight. Otherwise, we worked on to the end of Ch. 20.
I walked to the shop at lunch, with Woodgreen and environs at their most idyllic: the beech trees in their first fresh greenness, hawthorn in peak bloom, and the first tiny foals on the common, trying out their improbable Dali-esque legs. Bought stuff for cold meals and a bottle of Chardonnay. Worked on with Ch. 21 material then walked home in a most beautiful light. Drank wine and tried to write an account of what I have been doing for the last 18 months – and what I think I have learned.
Thursday 11
More notes for summer of 1918 – a period of false starts and failed initiatives. My aim to get him to Damascus by the weekend! Jeremy, Leah [J’s elderly sometime research assistant] and the Prof. [J’s father] all working as yesterday. The weather finally broke at lunch, with rain and cold scurries of wind. Much to my relief, J. now says there ought to be work after June, as there are some letters editions he wants to get off the ground. Indeed, he has gone back to the idea of publishing L’s wartime letters and diaries, despite Heinemann’s objections – it would be an expensive, fine-print edition, with me credited as co-editor! He thinks, no doubt rightly, that this would be a powerful thing to have on my CV, and sees it (I’m guessing) as some sort of reward for my services beyond the call of duty! Felt flattered and grateful, but mainly just relieved at not having to think about jobs for another couple of months.
Woodgreen and environs at their most idyllic: the beech trees in their first fresh greenness, hawthorn in peak bloom, and the first tiny foals on the common, trying out their improbable Dali-esque legs.
Saturday 13
Breamore/Salisbury/London/Luton/Dunstable
Tony [old college friend] rang early, and we agreed that I should I get the 6.30 from King’s Cross, as he will be on it. But after that dithered and failed to catch the next bus – so had to wait an hour – and then wasted time around Smiths etc. – so had to run to catch the 1.15 to London. As it had now become rather warm, and I was wearing my new black shirt, and the train was packed to the gills, I was sweating quite uncomfortably by the time we got to Waterloo.
A sandwich on the station and then my usual peregrinations along the South Bank, up to Covent Garden, and then the bookshops on the Charing Cross Rd etc . . . From here wandered north through Bloomsbury streets and garden squares to the Euston Rd, where I eventually found the new Thameslink station – again catching the train with seconds to spare.
Tony found me on the train, having come straight from the Academy, and we had a good natter about his work and mine. He has instrumental exams looming, but has already been offered a fellowship for next year! We got off at Leagrave, on the edge of Luton, and from here T. drove us to their place in Dunstable. Philip and Rosie were already there, as was Louise, in a rather sexy black-and-white dress (with stockings!). Everyone staying over – even L. – which somehow made for a richly relaxed mood, as there was no question of anyone leaving early or not drinking. Only Marianne [T’s wife] less than happy, as she had cysts on both eyes (one lanced) and seemed generally under the weather.
Dinner was chicken breasts with asparagus spears in a sage sauce and no shortage of wine. Somehow, I think apropos T and M’s time in Aber, the subject of low-flying military aircraft in Wales came up. I mentioned something I’d read about this – fears that the planes might hit – I don’t know! – what was the silliest thing I could think of? – dogs. For some reason this started a laugh that rolled on for the rest of the night. We talked and talked and talked and laughed and laughed and laughed – almost as if it were 1982 and we were sitting in Joe’s room at Keble. P and R have not really changed at all (in their case the HIGHEST praise) but Lou was somehow different – a little more worldly, or anxious to be thought so . . . Says she is planning a long holiday in Fiji, Australia, and other parts Oceanic – somehow seems to know people all over the world. Phil gently ribbing her all evening, as is his wont. We carried on drinking brandy till midnight, when lo! it became P’s birthday. Slept on the sofa.
I don’t think I am easily awed by this sort of thing, but handling the little leather-bound books that Lawrence carried from Wejh to Akaba and then Damascus was some sort of something.
Sunday 14
Dunstable/St Albans/Harpenden
Pentecost Sunday and Tony up early, to play at his church in Holborn: from what he was saying, it’s a pretty rum set-up, with one of the priests a drunk and the other some loony French monarchist. He a little on edge as the service going out live, on ITV. Lou the next to leave, mid-morning . . . I had brought a copy of the NPG catalogue to show-off – to everyone but I think especially her – but she couldn’t work up much of an interest, bless her . . . P and R stayed to watch the broadcast: I rather sheepishly asked if I might stay with them in London, but they quite reasonably said it was too short notice: it is, actually, not like being in college when you could just roll up and doss on someone’s floor. I tried ringing a few people but then M stepped in and said of course I could stay with them, if I didn’t mind travelling in and out to the Library.
With everyone else gone, Marianne suggested that we walk on the Downs, which we did: a heavy, hazy day but still views across half the Midlands – hang-gliders riding the thermals and the little planes going up from the LGC at the base of the ridge . . .
We drove back to the house and ate a cold lunch in the garden with Tony, now returned. He had the grace to admire my catalogue over tea, I think with some sincerity. Later, he went to practice harpsichord so M. and I out again, this time to the cathedral at St Alban’s. I think she was hoping for an evensong, as she always seems keen to bundle me into a service – but no. The building itself awesomely beautiful inside and the shrine genuinely numinous, despite I think being mainly 19th c. Tea at the café, a quick look at some Roman remains (bricks), and then M. drove us back via her workplace, the famous agricultural research station at Rothamsted. We walked around the grounds, and M. showed me the famous field, with its strips cultivated under different experimental conditions for over 100 years – making it the longest-running scientific experiment in the world. We also dropped into the manor itself – 17th-century, with oak-panelled rooms and a fine staircase – set in its own enclosed gardens with copper beech, flowering cherry, climbing roses, etc.
Tony made a vegetarian curry and we sat outside in the warm night, drinking white wine until perhaps 11.
Monday 15
Dunstable/Berkhamsted/London
Warm and a little hazy. Tony giving a concert tonight, in Berkhamsted School, so I left with him mid-morning, to catch the train from there. We drove past Ivinghoe Beacon and Whipsnade Zoo and then across the top of the hills on a most beautiful road with the woods rolling away on every side – T. said this is the Ashridge Estate. Berkhamsted seemed pleasant but the school (right on the main street) a gloomy red-brick edifice like a public school in a movie.
From here about 35 mins to Euston and a short walk to the British Museum and Library. I handed over Jeremy’s letter and after the usual paperwork was given a membership card and admitted to the sanctum, where a librarian produced the Lawrence pocket diaries and more or less stood guard over me while I perused them. I don’t think I am easily awed by this sort of thing, but handling the little leather-bound books that L. carried from Wejh to Akaba and then Damascus was some sort of something. The contents mostly just an itinerary with a few scribbled comments, but still. Notoriously the pages for late November 2017 are missing, allowing people to think whatever they want about the ‘Deraa Incident’.
Grabbed a tea and was back in Berkhamsted c. 7, giving me time to wander by the canal etc before Tony’s concert. This was given in the Old Hall, the original Tudor school building, and featured works by Bach, Frescobaldi, Rameau and others. T. evidently very accomplished now . . .
Another night in Dunstable.
Thursday 18
Breamore/Woodgreen
Again very hot. Got in to find J. in a furious mood, writing a long, forensic letter to the chairman of the NCR Book Award judges (a guy named Heilbroner), which sets out all the errors of fact and interpretation in Brown’s A Touch of Genius. He says he knows this will make him look terrible, as the author of a rival publication, but he is beyond caring: the idea that Brown could actually win is too appalling to contemplate. I tried to work on quietly, ignoring J’s noisy typing, occasional exclamations, and slamming down of books and coffee mugs etc. Can understand his feelings but is this really the best use of his time?
Mum rang, mostly to say that C. had done very well in his exams and they are going to visit in a couple of weeks, if I care to join them? Several glasses of cold Chardonnay.
The woods were filled with a fragrant gloom, except where lit up by the flowers of rhododendrons, the bluebells and ransoms having long gone by. There was a very young roe deer in the clearing, startled among towering foxgloves. On to the open hillside – past the miz-maze and ‘Giant’s Grave’ – then sat for a while with the sun setting strangely over the downs, the long greens paling into grey.
Sunday 21
Breamore/Salisbury
A blastingly hot day. As I had no better plan, to Salisbury again on the bus: ate a ploughman’s at the Pheasant, with cold beer. Sleepy enough afterwards but to evensong anyway, for the first time in months. It was beautifully cool in the Cathedral, where I sat in a pleasant stupor and let the music flow over and through me. Trinity Sunday: which made me think of that so-happy evening three years ago now, when I sat in Keble Chapel with Lou, P and R, and lovely Josie M. and felt like some sort of Christian for perhaps the first time. Ah well. Lounged in the park by the river and read the paper with all the couples and young families paddling, petting, sunning themselves on the grass. Home on the 4.30.
Monday 22
Breamore/Woodgreen
Already hot when I walked in at 9: horses sprawled in the buttercup meadows, cattle up to their knees in the river. Worked with J. on the Yarmuk bridges raid: reasonably good going for once, but we are falling further behind. Lunch in the garden.
Still hot as I walked back. Dozed a little on the bed then cheese, chutney, Chardonnay. Thunder in the night, with a little rain.
Thursday 25
Still the most godawful humidity, despite storms. J seemed exhausted and told me to sit at the screen and get on with the Dead Sea chapter without him! This was extremely flattering but I was a bit resistant – first, I am nervous of the computer – and second, it could be a waste of time if he then decides to rewrite everything I’ve done . . . It turned out to be hard, slow work as the existing text is pretty sketchy – didn’t even find time to shop. J. came and wrote with me after lunch but seemed utterly knackered and fed up. News later that the NCR award for nonfiction had gone to Joe Simpson, for Touching the Void! This produced the ghost of a smile from J., who said the thought of Brown getting his hands on the £25,000 had been unbearable. His letter had perhaps its effect, although Heilbroner had not replied. He also said he had sent a copy to A. W. Lawrence [T. E.’s brother and executor], so he could not be accused of working underhand.
Packed for tomorrow.
Friday 26
Breamore/Salisbury/Yeovil
Same weather, same work. Decent progress at first but soon stuck on Picot’s intrigues in Jerusalem – tried it from various angles – but none quite right – and so on all day. Finally gave up around 6, when J. let me go.
Got myself to the bus-stop in good time then waited – and waited – in the end for about 50 minutes. Back to the house in disgust. As there was not another bus till 8.40, Sam kindly drove me to the main stop by the pub, where I could sit inside. A rather shabby, inhospitable place but I had a beer, and a beef sandwich, and read my book. This led to an odd exchange with one of the staff: ‘We haven’t see you before. I suppose you’re one of the jousters?’ ‘One of the . . .’ ‘You know, with horses, and armour, and a lance, and that spiky ball-on-a-chain thing?’ It turns out that Breamore House is putting on ‘medieval’ jousting this weekend, and he assumed I was part of the entertainment – perhaps because he saw me reading Runciman’s History of the Crusades. Salisbury after 9, home after 11.
Sunday 28
Yeovil/Reading/Goring/Breamore
Warm but overcast. This was a lovely happy family day but already I can remember little about it. We set off before 10, driving over Salisbury Plain and then through Hungerford etc. as if for Oxford – but then the M4 to Reading and Charlie’s Halls. He happy and relaxed after finishing exams and we had a meal in town to celebrate that and belatedly his birthday . . . Loaded the car with some of his stuff, then M and D and I up the Thames Valley to have a look at Goring: the village or little town crammed between the hills and river, with brick and flint cottages, flowering trees, and the famous ensemble of lock, bridge, and weir. Swans on the river and boats of every sort, from houseboats to cruisers to canoes. Crossed over briefly into Streatley, on the Berkshire side . . . I would happily have got the train from Reading but they insisted on driving me back to Breamore, via Salisbury.
Monday 29
Breamore/Woodgreen/Whitsbury
Bank holiday, but once more worked as agreed. J, I am pleased to say, had taken the weekend off but still seemed exhausted and very far from his best. Chapter 22 again. We got through the Picot stuff – but really quite messily . . . Very warm by the p.m.
Strangely restless in the evening. Had my supper early, read in Rilke, then decided to take him up onto the downs. The woods were filled with a fragrant gloom, except where lit up by the flowers of rhododendrons, the bluebells and ransoms having long gone by. There was a very young roe deer in the clearing, startled among towering foxgloves. On to the open hillside – past the miz-maze and ‘Giant’s Grave’ – then sat for a while with the sun setting strangely over the downs, the long greens paling into grey. From here the path to Castle Ditches, around the back of the Manor Stud, and down into Whitsbury village, where I drank a pint at the Cartwheel, sitting under the stars as two albino cats prowled spookily around me. Homeward then through dark lanes and even darker woods – a hedgehog almost under my feet as I came back to Breamore. Home by 11 and straight to bed.
The earlier parts of this diary can be read here, here, here, and here.
(More to come . . . )