I have written at some length of the failure of this – possibly – final attempt to put Poldark back on the screen, because it was so widely discussed, so widely written about, and yet with the issues so widely misunderstood. Everyone had a different version of what they thought were the facts. As the one who stood to lose or gain most by this enterprise and who, feeling sympathy and impatience with both sides, yet for the most part I could only stand by and watch the lemmings carefully plotting their own fall.
Many of the scenes in the HTV film were magnificent and almost all the acting was of a high standard.
Quite the most important contribution to the failure of Poldark 3, even outweighing the change of cast, was ITV’s bull-headedly stupid insistence on a first two-hour film to be made, to ensure it was going to be a success. This had the double-edged disadvantage of an all-or-nothing throw on the one showing. (ITV would certainly have given up if they had taken account of the adverse notices of the first episode of the first series). But also it meant that they had compressed the whole of one Poldark novel into quite a bit less than two hours, while the BBC had allotted four instalments of fifty-five minutes for each of the novels they used. The HTV film had far too much to say in too short a time.
Of course Poldark was so closely and affectionately associated with Robin and Angharad that without them much of the old magic was lacking. But I am pretty sure that, had it been presented in the way the BBC presented it, the public, while hating the changes, would have become absorbed in the progress of Ross and Demelza’s children, played as they were by Ioan Gruffudd and Kelly Reilly, and would reluctantly have switched on in increasing numbers as the series went along.
Chapter Seven
My wife had had her first stroke – a slight one – in April 1967, when she was fifty-four. Our local doctor had taken her blood pressure a couple of months before, had noted it was over 200, but had not bothered to tell us.
One can hardly believe the strides medicine has made since then. Control of blood pressure was in its infancy. She went into University College Hospital where the head physician, John Stokes, was an old friend of mine. They gave her Esbatal tablets, which brought the blood pressure down most effectively. Unfortunately the BP reading was too dramatically different when the patient was lying down to when she was standing up. The result was that although the pressure was satisfactory when she was in bed, the minute she stood up she fainted.
She successively survived the spring and our daughter’s wedding and the summer – during which we went twice to Ireland and then a tour of America (of which more later) – and the early autumn, taking a few of these pills which in small doses kept her blood pressure within safer limits but which were always inclined to make her dizzy and feel faint. In the September we went to Crete, hired a Volkswagen and drove round the island, ending up at Agios Nikolaos, where we spent ten days at the Minos Beach Hotel, bathing and sitting in the sun. The slight weakness in her left arm, which was the only visible sign of her illness, had quite gone, and she seemed well enough.
On the way back to Heraklion, where we would spend another day or so before flying home, we stopped at a little hotel called Grammatikakis at Malia, where we had spent a night on the way out, but this time only for a bathe and a picnic lunch.
As we were about to get out of the car, Jean said: ‘I feel queer. A nasty sensation in my head.’
Hoping it was just the effects of the sun I said: ‘Well, sit still a minute. I’ll get you a brandy.’
When I came back she said: ‘Oh, God, I think I’m losing the use of my hand.’
We both knew what that meant. I most particularly because I had observed it too closely in my father. We had two choices: go straight into this hotel and take a room and see what happened; or drive the thirty-odd miles into Heraklion. We knew from our previous visit that they spoke no English at this hotel, only Greek and German, also that the beds were like boards and that when dark fell the lights were hardly as bright as candles. At Heraklion we should be in relative civilization. I shut the door on her and we drove on.
I shall not forget that on the way there – although she must have known as well as I did what was happening – she commented on the scenery, pointed out things of interest, never referred to how she felt. It was a brave foreshadowing of the way she would face this illness which she had to face for the rest of her life. When we got to the Hotel Astir at Heraklion they had to carry her out of the car.
Up in the bedroom, her left arm seemed to improve a bit and she sat up in bed and insisted on making our luncheon sandwiches, which we tried to eat while waiting for a doctor. Dr Xekardarkis, when he came, confirmed what we already knew, gave her more pills, which from their effects must have been similar to Esbatal, and said we should try to manage in the hotel; he would not under any circumstances recommend the hospital, which in his view was appalling. (Unknowing of this insult, the Cretan proprietor of the hotel said to me next day: ‘I wouldn’t trust that doctor too far, he’s a Greek.’)
So we managed somehow for a week. Everyone in the hotel was supremely kind. Three sturdy chambermaids gave Jean regular blanket baths; food for her was sent up. The first night, in the middle of the night, she wanted to go to the lavatory. I got a chair and levered her on to it, then dragged it screeching into the bathroom, transferred her and left her there. When I went back she had fainted. I could not lift her but dragged her back along the floor and eventually, somehow, heaving and pulling, I got her back into bed. Her eyes were open and staring; she did not seem to be breathing; I thought she was dead. Then, as the Esbatal-type drug ceased to have its dire effect, the blood came back and her eyes flickered and she smiled up at me. Again it was typical that she should smile.
The next morning I went to buy a bedpan and some knickers. Knowing no Greek and the shopkeepers knowing nothing else, these purchases involved a difficult, even comical, negotiation. Suggestive gestures on my part produced the bedpan at the chemist’s fairly soon, but no one in the lingerie shop seemed to have the least idea about knickers. The three pretty girl assistants produced girdles, suspender belts, petticoats, sanitary towels, bikinis. In the end in despair I found a smart fashion magazine and scrabbled through it. On about page 42 a girl stood in elegant underwear. I pointed, and the three girls simultaneously cried ‘A-a-a-h!’ and thereupon opened cupboards upon cupboards and produced every kind of the desired object, from flimsy panties to voluminous drawers.
It was very hot in Heraklion and there was no air-conditioning. Apart from reading, and the doctor’s assiduous visits, Jean’s only occupation was watching the weddings which constantly took place at the church in the square outside. October seemed the fashionable month. After a couple of dismal beach visits on my own, I occupied my time trying to get more money from England (since in 1967 currency restrictions were still in force and my traveller’s cheques would not begin to suffice), in returning the hire car, in reading beside her and to her in the bedroom, and in making what preparation I could for a return to England.
Dr Xekardarkis, who, in spite of the hotelier’s warning, was proving an efficient and helpful doctor, said he thought it would be safe for Jean to travel in a few more days. The left arm and leg were completely paralysed, but the internal haemorrhage seemed to have stopped. She could just move her hand. Life in the hotel was becoming insupportable.
In those days there was no direct flight from Crete to England: one had to change planes at Athens. In order that she might lie down I booked three seats for her. Then I arranged for an ambulance to meet the plane at Athens and take her to some convenient place where she might await the plane for London. I also arranged for an ambulance to meet us at Heathrow to take us to the University College Hospital, who were warned to expect us. It was five more days to wait.
On the Thursday, the day before we left, the doctor came at midday and said Jean’s blood pressure was much better. I paid him, we said friendly goodbyes, I packed, I paid the hotel. We couldn’t wait. Then at 5 p.m.
BEA telephoned that they would not take us. Their medical officer at Heathrow had decided that it was too soon for Jean to fly. She was, he said, too young to be subjected to the risk.
We shall never know how far this distant medico was concerned for my wife’s health and how far concerned not to have an invalid aboard who might be taken ill and cause the flight to be interrupted. I can only say we took it very badly indeed. If a competent Greek doctor who had attended the patient for ten days thought it safe for her to fly, why should a man who had never seen her and was a thousand miles away presume to decide otherwise? We were faced with an indefinite sentence to stay on in this hot foreign hotel in this small Cretan town. I went to see the travel agent and besought her to find us some other way home. She was wonderfully, wonderfully helpful. Although it was closing time she kept the office open and rang here, there and everywhere. Eventually Olympic Airways agreed to take us, but at a very early hour, and then there would be a longer wait in Athens. I hastened back to tell Jean the good news.
Up at five, breakfast at six, the plane left at eight. At Athens, where we arrived at 9.15, there was no ambulance, because the arrangement had been for a later plane. Two porters carried her down the steps of the plane in a blanket, which they used like a hammock. We were deposited in the main concourse, and she lay there for three hours while travellers milled around her.
Through it all, though paralysed, Jean kept her good spirits.
A well-meaning American tourist saw her lying there and came up and said: ‘Aren’t you feeling very well, dear?’
She replied: ‘I’m fine, thank you, it’s just that I like travelling this way.’
Other problems arose. I got a snack and drink for us both. Then I said:
‘You’ve got to find somewhere to spend a penny.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ she said.
‘Nonsense, it’s three hours to London even when we’re off.’ I went in search of somebody who could speak English and found one – a security man, as it happened – and explained the position to him.
‘I will see to this,’ he said, and we went together to see the doyenne of the women’s loo. Under pressure she emptied the lavatory of all its women clients. Then two security men picked up the blanket and carried Jean into the loo, I following with the bedpan which I had kept among the hand luggage. Then they all trooped out until she had used the pan and I had emptied it. A few minutes later we returned in triumph to our place in the concourse and normal traffic in the ladies’ loo was resumed.
Again, there was no ambulance waiting at Heathrow for there had been no time to tell them of our change of plan; but one did arrive later, and we drove off crazily over what seemed all the broken roads in London to the University College Hospital.
I never used BEA again – not, that is, until it amalgamated with BOAC and became just British Airways, by which time my anger had run its course.
Towards the end of Jean’s four weeks at UCH I had a long chat with John Stokes.
He said: ‘You can see how much better she is. She has full movement in the leg and quite a lot in the hand. Of course her arm and leg will always be weak, and she’ll need to wear a caliper to support her ankle for the rest of her life. But you’re lucky that the stroke was on the left side – it seldom affects the speech, and for a right-handed person is much easier to adjust to.’
I said: ‘That I’m delighted about; but I’m chiefly concerned as to how we can prevent another stroke.’
He said: ‘There’s no way. She should lead an easy, balanced life, and we’ll control the blood pressure as far as we can. You might get five years. You might even get ten.’
The day before she left he said to me: ‘I can see how devoted you are to each other. I think – if I may say so – you must try to distance yourself from her.’
That was November 1967. After a year Jean threw her caliper into the dustbin and never used one after – though sometimes she needed it. It would be absurd to claim that she enjoyed good health. She had chesty coughs, and periods of sickness when her appetite was nil. Sometimes she was dizzy. Often she tripped and fell. She was unable to swim, dance, play golf, play the piano, or walk anywhere without a stick. Also, having known a few people with strokes, I am aware that this is not an illness which (like, say, tuberculosis) seems to breed hectic high spirits. The tendency is all for depression, and, if anything, overcaution. The easy, balanced life. Above all, take no risks. Don’t subject yourself to pressures or stresses. A quiet life.
Well, with the help of my pocket diary, I have made a list of the number of places we visited in the twenty-five years from 1967 to 1992.
Switzerland
Venice
France
Austria
India
Majorca and Minorca
Corfu
Canary Islands
United States
Ireland
West Indies
South Africa
Greece
19 times
15 times
10 times
8 times
7 times
8 times
6 times
5 times
5 times
4 times
3 times
3 times
2 times
and:
Morocco
Kenya
Australia
Hong Kong
Bangkok
Egypt
Bermuda
Nepal
Argentina
Brazil
Canada
Hungary
Sweden
Seychelles
Finland
Denmark
Portugal
Turkey
and
Venezuela
In that time my wife:
Was piggy-backed by a native up the precipitous side of an island
in the Seychelles.
Rode on an ostrich in South Africa.
Tried unsuccessfully to surf, with a lame leg and a weak arm,
among the great waves of Port Elizabeth, Rio, St Lucia and Bondi
Beach.
With a rubber ring for support repeatedly bathed all over the
world, including sitting on beaches in Cornwall while the icy water
swirled around her.
Was carried out to, and sailed in, a catamaran in Barbados.
Went out in pedalos in Venice, Majorca and Nice.
Took a day-long motor drive across the mountains and dust roads
of Nepal to see the sun rise over Annapurna. (Accommodation for the night was at a guest house which could only be reached by crossing a river on a wooden raft built on oil drums.)
Climbed down to the Iguaçú Falls in Brazil.
Jogged endlessly and uncomplainingly hour after hour in old motor-cars in the heat and dust of India.
Flew in Concorde. (With the extra ear pressures involved.)
Took the dawn flight round Everest.
Neither of us had ever ridden as children, but just after the war we took lessons and did a bit of riding. After the second lesson the instructor sidled up to me and said: ‘ Your wife is a fearnaught.’
Perhaps that was a good summing-up.
I have to confess – though it does me no credit – that only about 10 per cent of the many trips listed were undertaken to promote my books or to gather material for a future novel. All the rest have been taken in pursuit of pleasure. I have always loved travel abroad for its own sake. War, and lack of the financial resources, prevented me from travelling much until the early 1950s, but from then on it was four or five times a year. Indeed one of my publishers once speculated sardonically that I must write my novels in my spare time.
I have never, in fact, gone abroad seeking material for a book (though several times I have gone to check over details). But in spite of Shaw’s remark that travel narrows the mind, I have found the pursuit of hedonism (more sun, exotic food, warm seas) ha
s in my case opened my eyes to new experiences and I have encountered characters of different dimension, some of whom have figured prominently in my novels – see Madame Passani in The Green Flash, the lonely man who told me the story of his life that wet day in Terrigal Bay, Australia (same novel), my French publisher in Paris in Night Without Stars.
However, there was one trip which resulted in a novel; though as far as I remember it was undertaken entirely for pleasure. Certainly it became one of the rather more hazardous.
One day I said to Jean, ‘ We’ve never been to Morocco. D’you think it might be a good idea?’
I knew her answer before she spoke. I have never known her turn down a new venture, nor did she ever have doubts about it before we went. (As I frequently did.)
So we flew to Gibraltar, and after a couple of days seeing the Rock, took the ferry across to Tangier. There we spent three days mainly bathing and sunbathing, then hired a self-drive car to take a look at the hinterland of Morocco.
We were warned not to go by a consular official. ‘You’re safe enough as far as Ceuta. Even Tetouan is fairly quiet. But certainly avoid the Rif Mountains. There are some Berber tribes in revolt. The government in Rabat is too weak. There was a kidnapping last month.’
The first day we drove to Tetouan the car was searched perfunctorily at the border, but we were soon waved on.
The car was an extremely old Ford 8 (not cylinder, horsepower). The battery seemed a bit flat, but we thought a good run would top it up.
After the night at Tetouan we set off again for the hinterland, driving towards the Rif Mountains in the general direction of Fez. The roads were superb here, all laid down by the French before Morocco gained its independence.
A lot of the early part was desert, and about 12.30 we stopped the car in the sparse shade offered by an argan tree and prepared a picnic lunch, most of which Jean had bought that morning in the Tetouan market before we left.
We were shortly joined by a Holy Man, in tattered black djellaba, with shaven head and a long twisted stick. He squatted about six feet away from us and made a number of observations in the Berber tongue. Presently Jean offered him a sandwich, which he gratefully accepted. Two more followed during the course of our meal. I began to feel horribly uncomfortable, for the sandwiches contained ham.