Must You Go?: My Life With Harold Pinter Read online

  10 February

  The Daily Express rings me with the news that Prince Charles and Camilla will wed. ‘Good luck to them! And the nation will heave a sigh of relief,’ I say and ring off as fast as possible. After that I don’t answer the telephone. I like my royals dead, I once flippantly said, referring to my historical works, in answer to those eternal demands for comments on this that and the other in the present royal family; then poor Princess Diana was dead and I couldn’t use it any more. Just as the telephone stopped ringing for me, it began again for Harold, more significantly for the death of Arthur Miller. Harold was extremely sad. Me: ‘You didn’t lament for Beckett though you loved him too.’ Harold: ‘Beckett wanted to move forward towards death but Arthur was full of life and wanted to stay alive.’

  2 March

  Ran into Ian McEwan at a party for Ishiguro’s superb, sad new novel about clones. Told him that Saturday had been a great solace to me, reading it when waiting for an operation because it’s compulsive reading and you don’t notice the hours passing. Ian’s huge owl-eyes gleam behind his glasses: ‘Was it a brain operation?’ he asks hopefully. ‘Was the surgeon drunk?’ He is referring to the climax of his book. He is definitely disappointed when the answer is a modest knee operation and a stone-cold sober surgeon.

  4–6 March

  We both went to the Aldeburgh Book Festival, run by an enterprising and civilized couple, Johnnie and Mary James, who own a bookshop there. There was a blizzard on the way up, but once in the hotel we looked out at the sea from three huge windows; woke at 6 a.m., snow on all the car roofs, a vast grey flat sea. The view changed all the time as the sun came and went, now a Turner, now a more sinister Hopper. This was Britten country so we did some sight-seeing to feed our shared passion for his operas. My talk compared Mary Queen of Scots and Marie Antoinette. Harold enacted Celebration and was miffed because there were no laughs. Was it the bad language? Hugh Thomas, who had nobly introduced me, asked a local. Resident: ‘No, that was just what we expected.’

  3 March

  Mary Nighy who is to play the Princesse de Lamballe, Marie Antoinette’s favourite, came to see me. She told me to my pleasure that the producer Ross Katz was most enthusiastic about filming in France: ‘They have châteaux out there! We don’t even have to build them.’ Pale and pretty, not exotically dark and beautiful like her mother Diana Quick; interesting to see Bill Nighy’s wonderful raddled face transformed into that of an English Rose. Very bright, as she seeks information. But of course she’s not at all my Princesse de Lamballe, who was six years older than the Queen, already a widow; and rather dull.

  Suddenly I realized that she wasn’t my Princesse de Lamballe any more: she was Sofia’s. Did I mind?

  8 March

  The next visit, although extremely enjoyable, was even more disconcerting. Jason Schwartzman arrived from Paris (where he had left his beloved dog – I liked that pet-devotion which reminded me of Marie Antoinette and Mops). Bizarre-looking at first sight in bright chocolate brown suit, three piece, yellow open-necked shirt, longish black Beatle-style hair and black stubble. Quite short. Eloquent big black eyes (I had no idea that he was Sofia’s cousin, the son of Talia Shire, the heroine-actress of the Godfather series). He told me he was half Polish-Jewish and half Italian. Well, Louis XVI was half Polish too. Otherwise, except for the marked black brows, there is no resemblance between this lively, attractive man and the fat slob who was Louis XVI. We get quickly on to his eating, how he’s had to put on twenty-four pounds and wanted to do it ‘organically’ as he’s a vegetarian. He has a list of questions in an exercise book. His main thrust is that Louis XVI was a shy romantic, pulsing with love for Marie Antoinette, not an obese oaf with sexual problems. I don’t give in. He complains that he spends most of the film eating – except when hunting, which he likes: ‘I have to eat mounds of pheasants and things which they don’t make in tofu.’ His accent to me is very Californian. And Mary Nighy very English. Whereas Kirsten Dunst is LA Valley Girl. What will happen about all that? Will it all be dubbed, as Bill Nighy speculated when I bumped into him?

  29 March

  Château de Millemont, somewhere near Paris, bought in a wrecked state by an American for film companies to use. My first visit to the set. Astonishing! A large painted backdrop outside the window makes it clear that this is Versailles. Marie Antoinette’s bedroom is an exact replica of the one there: the bed, plumes and all, is perfect. Except that there are huge black cables and cameras everywhere. Me to Sofia: ‘Think of all that did – and did not – go on in that bed.’ I sit amidst swathes of feathers, gilt and taffeta, much created by laser, in a chair marked MARIE ANTOINETTE and while waiting for the shoot, I read Tommy by Richard Holmes, the story of the ordinary British soldier in the First World War. This tale of mud and blood seems peculiarly inappropriate to the scene before me. In my usual terror of being caught without serious reading matter I had stuffed it into my handbag. There is even a taffeta dog basket for Mops – and I later glimpse Mops himself being taken for a comfort break.

  I love the scene in the canteen; men in white wigs, embroidered waistcoats and knee breeches sit indiscriminately among people in jerseys and jeans, with production mobiles trilling. Since no one pays any attention to their eighteenth-century fancy dress, these characters give the impression of being ghosts from another time. Except the ghosts are having some substantial nosh, lots of meat, and this being France, there are bottles of red wine on every table (apparently it’s a French union condition). The first ‘ghost’ I talk to is Sebastian Armesto as the Comte de Provence, Louis XVI’s brother, last seen at Eton as President of the Literary Society and with a patrician voice to match (accent again?). He is the son of the distinguished historian Felipe Fernandez Armesto. Sebastian tells me kindly that he enjoyed my book and that he finds his father’s books rather boring. Charming! I hope my children don’t go round saying that kind of thing to all the historians (I bet they do).

  Then I see three geishas with huge be-rollered heads wrapped in black net and grey towelling robes over their taffeta skirts. Mary as the Princesse de Lamballe, the Comtesse de Provence, the gorgeous Rose Byrne with her rich auburn locks (she’s allowed a red net) and perfect pout as the Duchesse de Polignac – what Sofia calls ‘the party girl’.

  Finally the filming starts. Kirsten Dunst, in turquoise with a little black lace scarf, takes my breath away. Not only does she look absolutely beautiful and natural (that fabulous pink and white complexion, wide-apart blue eyes) but she’s graceful. Except that she’s not disfigured by a big Habsburg lower lip – you wouldn’t want that in a film – Kirsten is an exact replica of the young girl, as I imagined her. Sebastian Armesto asks me what he should call his wife. Me: ‘Madame in public and Sweetie Pie in private.’ I learn that the first seven-year-old Dauphin has been sacked. Well, that poor little boy never had much luck, did he?

  28 March

  Easter Sunday. France. We visit the country house of Laure de Gramont and her family, one of our favourite places (and families). Laure’s brother-in-law Gerry Shea gets hats together with Harold over politics. Gerry says he is a coward when it comes to speaking out, unlike Harold: I must say I think this is modesty on his part. A critic might argue that Harold is not especially brave in speaking out since he particularly likes shocking and shaking. But later I say to Harold in the Dark Bar of the Meurice Hotel that he was certainly extremely brave over his chemo and his cancer operation when he faced death. In the real sense of the word, he is valiant.

  Shortly after our return from Paris, Harold’s health began to deteriorate again, with a severely painful throat. For a while I thought it was traumatic: Paris which had been so promising, ending in a devastating – for him – evening when the distinguished, ancient director Roger Planchon had elected to run together two of Harold’s plays, Family Voices and Celebration instead of doing them separately. There had been rumours … but Harold who had admired Planchon’s No Man’s Land years earlier, did not believe the
m. After this disastrous performance he left with dignity, as Planchon said roguishly: ‘I hope you are not going to hit me.’ Nothing causes Harold more pain than unlawful interference with his text.

  I was absorbed writing my book called Galaxy at the time, which morphed into Love and Louis XIV. Harold admitted that reading it every three weeks or so when I had finished a new chapter, he found it rather muddling. I did not want to hear this: like everyone who asks their nearest and dearest for a candid opinion, I didn’t actually want that candid opinion.

  My Diary throughout the summer is dominated by observations about Harold’s health, which is occasionally, but only occasionally reported to be better, generally worse: ‘his depression is waning.’ All sorts of verdicts (but not cancer). ‘Viral bronchitis’ is one of them. Better than lung cancer, we say to one another, the word emerging for the first time. In July things get worse. Harold’s mouth is in agony and he feels ghastly. Visits to the dentist provide no relief or solution.

  Then, after more hospitalization, ‘inflammation of the oesophagus’. Oh for some relief for him! In mid July I record Harold as hollow-eyed after coughing from 10.30 p.m. to 9 a.m. (and for all I know after that).

  21 July

  Dramatic day. I was interviewed by Cherie Blair, assisted by Cate Haste, at No. 10 on the subject of prime ministers’ wives for a TV film following their book (which contained much interesting, anecdotal stuff on the lives of the First Mates). Cherie, beautiful as she is in reality, not photographs, very sympathetic. I approve of her efforts to get the position of the prime minister’s spouse defined, in view of the constant hostility of the press. At the end she leaned forward and asked me whether I would like to have been a prime minister’s wife. I gazed at Cate and burst out laughing. ‘What, Harold for PM!’ and laughed some more. The bubble coming out of my head read: ‘My husband would like to indict your husband as a war criminal, so that’s what he would do as Prime Minister.’ What I actually said – perfectly truthfully – was: ‘If he was Prime Minster, Harold would commandeer all the boxes at Lord’s for the Ashes.’

  Life’s rich tapestry. I went from No. 10 (enormous security, which at the time I thought possibly overdone) to the Royal Court Theatre where Harold was being interviewed by young foreign playwrights, the annual date he much enjoys. Cuban, Finnish, Arab, etc. Naturally he was inveighing against Tony Blair … He also spoke passionately about the need for humour in plays. No one cracked a smile. Went out to pick up a taxi and found a traffic block. Then I heard of the four bombs and the dread words Shepherd’s Bush (where two of my children and their families live). Found myself thinking that the police who had shot the would-be suicide bomber had been right, given his intentions and his desire to die, and I’m supposed to be a liberal! (I was of course totally wrong about this: here was an innocent man, the victim of police bungling.)

  Harold’s still-declining health: I record the kindly reactions of others including the phrase that carers get to know: ‘Really, this is much worse for you.’ The answer is: ‘No, it’s not. It’s worse for Harold. Much worse. But it’s dreadful for me in a different way.’ In the meantime my Diary, with increasing gloom, lists the tiny amounts of food Harold manages to ingest. It’s all much more painful than chemo.

  27 August

  My seventy-third birthday. I can hardly describe it. The most beautiful weather I have ever known at Bernhurst and a banquet on the front lawn, going on as in a French film, till six o’clock in the evening. Interleaved with the cricket, watched by enthusiasts indoors, a cliffhanger which ends in triumph when England wins the Ashes. But Harold is worse, really worse, eats nothing, has virtually lost his voice, coughs and splutters all night long. Back to the doctor and soonest. Oh, why is it always a Bank Holiday at the time of agonies?

  An excellent emergency doctor caused Harold to be admitted to Princess Grace Hospital. It took a little time for him to be diagnosed with a rare auto-immune blood disease called Pemphigus, where ‘the body attacks the body’. This is one of those diseases which you wish afterwards you had not looked up on the internet because the prognosis is so dire. Harold left me a sweet message: ‘I’ve been listening to the Rite of Spring on the radio. It reminds me of you.’ Actually I feel like the bleak rite of mid winter but the message is still lovely to receive.

  10 September

  It’s so odd being alone nearly all the time and my very best friend for thirty years can’t talk, really. So I moan to this Diary. Doing the Source Notes for Love and Louis XIV is however a marvellous distraction: normally I loathe the Bloody References’ as I call them, but this time they are keeping me sane.

  14 September

  Harold came home.

  15 September

  New Diary, new life. This morning Harold felt very warm when I hugged him, not so much the holy man-cum-skeleton of yesterday. ‘It’s Paradise being here.’ He said it. I agreed.

  16 September

  Harold went to a new doctor, Dr Chris Bunker, a dermatologist. Pemphigus is so rare that Dr Bunker, top expert, is currently treating only two people for it. And ‘it can be fatal’. I think I realized that from Googling but as usual put the thought away. Anyway Harold feels great confidence in Dr Bunker. Harold’s spirit is returning although steroids, doubled, make him very frail.

  Harold remained extremely frail and extremely tense. My Diary is one long record of his inability to eat, general suffering. But there was talk of a wonder drug. He took for the first time to using a stick (one of mine left over from my knee operations, thus decorated with perky green hearts – which he removed). Also got Carter’s the builders to make a wooden banister outside our front steps. Harold’s feet began to swell, thanks to the steroids, and his voice became extremely croaky.

  1 October

  Harold managed to come and join Sofia Coppola and me at dinner at Le Caprice (to his annoyance she managed to pay the bill, which he was determined to do, by slipping deftly away and doing it unannounced). Harold feels the great charm she radiates too: ‘a really nice person’. Partly it’s the gentleness, the good manners with which she arms herself, perhaps, as the daughter of a genius. The editing of Marie Antoinette is going well. Sofia loves the ‘Must you go?’ story of when we first met, which Harold told her. Wishes she could get it into Marie Antoinette. Me: ‘Maybe you can use it in your new vampire movie?’

  Despite the swollen feet of a mummy (oh my God! the shoe problem), Harold gallantly said he would ‘somehow’ get to Dublin for a Pinter Festival to celebrate his seventy-fifth birthday. ‘Somehow’ turned out to be a private plane, since by now he could scarcely walk and had many medical problems arising from his many medicines. He arrived totally exhausted but ‘I made it’ as we used to say about our various holiday travels in the past. He was rewarded by a production of Old Times at the Gate Theatre, as good as this great play gets, with the utter truthfulness of Janie Dee to commend it, last seen in Betrayal. Then there was Penelope Wilton and Derek Jacobi in Family Voices.

  Lastly there was an extraordinary triumph of affection – no other word will do–when Celebration was performed by actors who had flown in, literally, from all over the world including Jeremy Irons and Michael Gambon (from Europe and LA respectively) and Stephen Rea (from New York). But tears rushed into my eyes when Harold actually managed to get on stage for the second act, all in black, looking very noble with his stick. He seemed suddenly so frail, by which I really mean old, I suppose, albeit very, very distinguished. I thought of the dynamo, the energetic man in his forties of 1975. Then in a strong voice, miked but very clear, stronger than it has been for months, he referred to 1975, our thirty years together, and read ‘Paris’, the first poem he ever wrote to me. Then the tears really did flow and I had to jump up and stand by the side and applaud strongly to still my palpitations of pride and pleasure. Later, at the party, lots of wives told me they wished that poem had been written to them. All referred to the line: ‘She dances in my life.’

  10 October

 
; Harold’s seventy-fifth birthday. Fêted day, then fated. As Harold was walking up the steps to the VIP lounge at Dublin Airport, plus stick, he slipped. I heard a scream behind me. Harold’s whole face dripping blood, down to his shoes. It was a huge gash which ultimately needed nine stitches. So it was off to Casualty in an ambulance. As I filled in the forms, about fifty times, each official said: ‘But it’s his birthday today!’ Desperately, I thought of giving a false date of birth but realized that the whole system would then grind to a halt.

  12 October

  Back in London, Harold recovered very slowly and I was punch-drunk with the shock of seeing it all. To calm my nerves, in the evening I tried out Harold’s denim umpire’s cap on him, to distract from the enormous white patch; having originally constructed a black patch out of the tail of a black silk shirt, which looked even worse. In the meantime I hastily reread my book The Gunpowder Plot in order to do a dialogue with Jim Naughtie the next day for Radio 4, to commemorate the four hundredth anniversary of the Plot. The contents of the book came as somewhat of a surprise to me, given my currently addled brain, and the fact that it was nine years since I had written it.

  Thus dawned the most exciting day of my life: with Harold, scarcely able to walk, heavily dependent on a stick, with a white patch over one eye and a sailor’s cap lying on the hall table.

  13 October

  What happened was this: we both felt awful at breakfast, Harold from coughing without intermission all night, me from listening to him. I went up to the Eyrie and assembled notes re the Gunpowder Plot. Then I chatted to a friend about Dublin. About eleven thirty, Linda came in and said the odd words: ‘Could you clear the line? Harold has something urgent he wants to tell you.’ Somewhat crustily I did so. Now it was Harold who was engaged: I thought he might clear his line. Finally he buzzed me: ‘I seem to have won the Nobel Prize.’