Spike An Intimate Memoir, page 29
“What the hell are you doing at this meeting?” I said.
“I’ve come to support Patrick.”
I knew he was not joking. I said I was not his enemy and he had got it the wrong way round. “I’m negotiating for your money.”
“I’m supporting him against you,” he repeated.
This was crazy. Then I had a brainwave. I guessed the meeting was about Patrick not wanting to pay Spike a guarantee, which he had not wanted to do for the last tour. I had to use words Spike would understand, and from experience I knew what they were. “He does not want to pay you your wages.”
What a transformation. He looked at me and then looked at Patrick. The survivor in him then emerged.
“Oh, Pat. That’s not right. I need my wages. Sorry, lad, I did my best for you.”
Spike got up and left my office. Patrick followed. I turned to the photo of Anthony Hopkins. “That’s the most surreal moment you’ll ever see. You like comedians. That is a comedian.”
I got my guarantee and the tour went ahead. It was a disaster. Spike phoned from Dublin and at some length explained that there was a noisy air vent outside his room and he could not sleep. He had taken the sheets and blankets from the hotel and now his bed was in his dressing room at the theatre. Nobody was looking after him. “I warned you I wouldn’t pick up the pieces if things went wrong and that you’d have to rely on Patrick to sort it out.”
He banged down the phone. A minute later it rang again.
“The worst thing in a human being is a lack of compassion. You’ve got it in abundance.”
The next day there was the usual bouquet of flowers. The note read, “WITH LOVE. HOPE THIS MAKES THE DAY BETTER FOR YOU. LOVE SPIKE.” Ironic, I thought. He was the one who tried to upset my day. Spike sent me flowers throughout our time together, not only when he was feeling guilty but also when the occasion struck him. I still miss them, not the flowers so much as the accompanying notes. However, this time the flowers did not herald a real change as his vindictive mood continued.
Whenever Spike got involved in business it ended in disaster, simply because he did not understand anything about it. Now, prompted by some wild misunderstanding, he vented his ignorance and aggression on his editor, Jack Hobbs, who had become one of his best friends. Shortly after the O’Neill tour, without any warning or consultation, he wrote to Jack Hobbs and Dick Douglas Boyd at Michael Joseph, “I would like to reassess my relationship with Jack Hobbs and Michael Joseph.” The reason, he explained, was because Jack had earned royalties from Sir Nobonk when the illustrator, Carol Barker, should have been the recipient. This was completely inaccurate, incidentally. I wondered what had started this vicious nonsense. Spike did not understand the meaning of royalties or contracts. He and Jack had worked together since 1968 and nothing like this had ever been mentioned.
Jack replied saying the letter had come “like a bolt from the blue”. He explained that Spike had got the situation totally wrong. Spike Milligan Productions had a contract with Carol Barker and the royalty split was agreed by her agent. He had a contract with Michael Joseph, “one that does not affect your earnings. I take no part of your royalty nor do you pay me in any way.”
I reassured Jack that the whole thing would die down, although I was taken aback by the vitriol of the language in Spike’s letter. But I was wrong. Spike told me he was going to form his own publishing company, Monkenhurst Books. His daughters, Silé and Jane, would run it, and in future they would publish all his books. “You’d better sign on at the Finchley Labour Exchange,” I said. Normally, that would have raised a laugh and I would have got the usual Milligan face saver – “I’m putting the phone down. You put the phone down and we’ll both cool off. I’ll ring you later.” But this time he was furious. One of our coldest exchanges ensued.
Calmly, I asked him what was wrong. “You’ve been unbearable for months,” I said, and reminded him how viciously he had treated Jack Hobbs. “I want no part of that. It seems you want to go it alone so you’d better find another manager.” From now on I would pay Eric the rent for my office because I needed a base, and this would avoid having to change my stationery. The words came out as smoothly as if they had been rehearsed. I felt as if somebody else was speaking.
Remaining, for once, equally calm, Spike said that he needed me to be a director of Monkenhurst Books so I could run the business.
“That’s not going to happen,” I said. “I want nothing to do with the company and I won’t help in any way.”
Very quietly he said, “This time you mean it, Norm, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
He put down the phone.
The following evening I took a very upset Jack Hobbs out to dinner. Strangely, he repeated what Harry Edgington had said. “He’s changing. His personality is completely different from what it was. A few years ago he would never have sent such a letter to me.”
Four days later Spike wrote a long letter to Jack in an attempt to justify his appalling behaviour. It ended, “Anyhow, I desperately want to see you again, have dinner and a laugh. I will not feel happy until I see you again as a friend.” I had asked him to apologize to Jack, but Spike could not climb down and just say sorry. That day Spike chipped away a tiny bit of the affection and friendship I had for him.
Then the inevitable occurred. Monkenhurst Books was stillborn. Spike admitted that it had been a failure and wrote to Dick Douglas Boyd to say he wanted to hand everything back to Michael Joseph. He seemed angry because Jack would not help him, adding, “He threw a huff and decided not to have anymore to do with me. So fares the human race in friendship.” How about that for hypocrisy.
I continued as Spike’s manager but I never forgot his treatment of Jack Hobbs, a sensitive, gentle soul. Eventually they made it up but things were not quite the same between them. Jack and I continued as normal, going out for dinner and listening to Alan Clare on the piano, the three of us swapping outrageous Milligan stories and laughing so much. Spike was the loser.
While all this was going on there was some light relief. We arrived at the office one day to find it had been burgled. Some quite valuable pieces were missing, including a costly, framed Persian rug, office equipment and cheque books. But Spike was not interested in any of that.
“The bastard has stolen my trumpet.”
Everyone in the building heard, and everyone had to be equally concerned. The same refrain was repeated throughout the day. It was his beloved trumpet, the one he had played in dance bands in the Thirties and during the war. He had once stolen cigarettes to buy a trumpet and this one was much better. He would spend hours playing it as he sat on the bed in his office, and “Laura”, “Body and Soul” and “Rainy Day” provided the regular soundtrack for Number Nine.
Spike wanted his trumpet back, and work, family, friends, none meant a thing until he could put it back to his lips once more. That “dear old trumpet” was not quite as old as all that. A man from Boosey and Hawkes told me long ago that so many parts of the instrument had been replaced that little was left of the original, and if Spike thought he was playing the one from the Thirties he was very much mistaken. But now was not the time to disillusion him. When the police failed to recover the trumpet within twenty-four hours it was “What do we pay them for?” and so on. Spike became the super sleuth of Bayswater. He pestered shopkeepers, tramps, pickpockets and the ladies of the street, all of whom normally passed the time of day with him, and asked them to let him know of any thieves operating in the area. He asked ex-cons, wide boys and those operating on the fringe of legality to tell him if they heard anything on the grapevine. To ease their memories he offered a reward of £1000. And every day he badgered the police at the Harrow Road station about it until a Sergeant Bennett came to see me.
“Ask him to lay off about his trumpet, miss, please.” He looked exhausted and I knew the feeling. I described the tatty blue cardboard case in which the instrument was kept and sent him on his way.
For almost three weeks Spike refused to discuss anything other than his trumpet. If anyone managed to get through to him to talk business they were cut short.
“Don’t you realize someone has stolen my trumpet, the trumpet I’ve had since I was a lad, the trumpet that went through the war with me and the one I’ve played every day of my life?” (An exaggeration but so was the man himself.) “And you have the temerity to try to talk business with me.”
I was getting very anxious because if the trumpet did not turn up the mania could distil into a depression that would spoil every project I had planned for months to come. Then one day a policeman, not poor Sergeant Bennett, arrived with photographs of an instrument case. It was the very one. Spike had caused so much kerfuffle at Harrow Road and elsewhere that the boys of the Met, who thought the world of him – he had done many charity concerts for them – had put the word out to every station to keep an eye open for his trumpet. So when there was a call to attend a disturbance at a house in Warwick Road an alert copper noticed a scruffy blue case and there was Spike’s trumpet. Stashed in another room was the Persian rug, along with some of the stolen objets d’art.
Suddenly, instead of the police being “useless buggers” they became “grand lads”, and those involved were invited to dinner at the Trattoo. That night they established a house record for the number of bottles of wine drunk at one party, and that is not taking into account the bottles of beer and spirits.
After the next day’s hangover had faded I heard the strains of “Rainy Day” coming from his office, and so normality, if there ever was such a thing, returned to Number Nine.
In December Spike opened his one-man show at the Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith. Within days of opening Spike rang to say Patrick O’Neill was short of money. Could Spike Milligan Productions lend him some so he could honour his commitment at the theatre?
“No, Spike. He’s your friend. You lend it to him.”
Happy Christmas, Spike.
Maybe 1983 would be different. But within weeks I had the evidence that nothing would change. Despite my advice Spike had made the loan to Patrick. His excuse was that there was no alternative: the performance had been advertised so it would reflect negatively on him if it did not take place.
“I don’t want to know any more. And spare me the details,” I said.
“You are my business manager. You need to know where my money is. I’ve let him have £10,000.”
“Of your own money. That’s a personal loan and has nothing to do with me. I look after your business affairs. And what’s more, I was against this tour in the first place.”
I reminded him that there was a busy year ahead of us and I needed to concentrate on business. He was furious and marched out of my office. On 11 January he was due to do a Kellogg’s commercial and I consoled myself with the thought that this would make up for the money due to us from the Lyric, money I knew we would never get. The commercial was a great success so on 24 January, in Spike’s presence, I wrote in my diary that he had promised, once again, to start on the fifth volume of his war memoirs. Two days later I opened my diary and alongside the entry found he had written, “SO?”
A few days later Equity telephoned to say that Spike had broken their ban on actors working on commercials. I had to attend the meeting because my signature was on the contract. The attitude of the officials made it a nightmare. Spike was a high-profile member and his breach was very damaging to the union. They decided that the only course was for Spike Milligan Productions to return the fee. I told them they could tell Spike they wanted the money. Anyway, I had not had a letter informing me of a ban and was unaware that one existed. The officials said they would convene a council meeting and let me know of their decision. I demanded evidence of the date of the ban and the date they had informed their members. They said the ruling had been made on 17 January. I had signed the contract on 10 January and the work was completed the following day; it just so happened that the commercial had been televised after the ban was enforced, but that did not put us in breach of it. Collapse of complaint but I was annoyed by Equity’s autocratic behaviour.
I usually kept anything like this from Spike but foolishly I told him about the meeting. “One of them acted as though he was Adolf Hitler and I was a rabbi’s wife.” Spike wrote to the general secretary, Peter Plouvier, who had not been present, and we heard no more about it.
Then came a chink of light. Jack Hobbs was brought back on track after he agreed to a meeting with Spike to discuss the war memoirs. Afterwards Spike wrote to Michael Joseph, Jack and me to say he would make a start in June after his tour of Australia and New Zealand. While in Australia he sent me a telegram on 16 April: “I’m 65 today. Remind me to die or get a bus pass.” I sent him a card:
ABOUT 80 BIRTHDAY CARDS WAITING. IF
a. I send them it’ll be “wasting fucking money on postage.”
b. I do not keep them for your return it’ll be “What do you mean? I wanted to see the cards from my fans.”
c. If I do keep them for your return it’ll be “Why did you keep these? My fucking birthday was two months ago.”
PLEASE TICK. ERIC SYKES SAYS, “WHERE APPLICABLE”.
Spike phoned as soon as he received the card. He loved it and, laughing, he said, “Oh, Norm. What have I done to you? It sounded just like me. Through all the tension you’ve managed to keep your sense of humour. I’m right, you are my sunshine girl.”
Yes, I thought, for today anyway. He would be my sunshine man if he kept his promise to start volume five in June. Of course when he came back he did not start on it. He was having trouble with his eye and decided he needed an operation. Operations were meat and drink to Spike. About one a year became par for the course. He went to see an eye surgeon, Eric Arnott, and after the consultation at 7 Queen Anne Street Spike returned to the office. What was the verdict?
“It’s the worst building I’ve ever seen.”
“Never mind the building. What about your eye?”
Spike brushed that aside. He had the operation, which was successful, and then wrote to Mr. Arnott about his building. Mr. Arnott protested that it had won the Queen’s Award for Architecture. Spike wrote back. “That does not mean a thing. She wears glasses as well.” He was far more in sympathy with Prince Charles’s opinions on architecture.
Later he was told he needed another operation on his eyes. He decided he wanted to speak to Mr. Arnott again for reassurance. Luckily for Mr. Arnott his phone was not working so Spike sent him a letter. “This is to report that both telephones in the Queen’s Award for Architecture building are out of order. Would your secretary please phone me?” Mr. Arnott did not call back, but Spike decided to ring me again late one night. Without preamble he said, “Listen. I’m not going to worry about my eye. Nelson did all right and he got Lady Hamilton.”
He was out of the office for a while. I wondered what was keeping his attention. On 28 July he phoned in the afternoon.
“I’ve just written in my diary, ‘SHOOT MYSELF’. Put it in your diary.”
“If you’re going to do it, do it at home and not in the office.” He laughed and hung up. I thought no more about it. The next morning, just before noon, I phoned him at Monkenhurst to say that Michael Joseph were putting on the pressure for the fifth volume of the memoir and wanted to know if he had started it.
“I told them you hadn’t.”
“Not now.”
“If not now, when?”
“Can’t you ever leave me alone? I’m getting married today. Shelagh wants to get married on the same date as Princess Diana did and that’s today.” He put the phone down.
The slightest puff from Puff the Magic Dragon would have knocked me over. I knew he meant it. My first thought was about the South Africa tour contract I had signed. Oh God, I prayed. He was meant to leave in the middle of August. Please God, no honeymoon.
I tried to collect my thoughts. Earlier he made out he had got engaged to please Shelagh, but had never mentioned the possibility of marriage. Spike was aware that not all his close friends approved of the relationship. Later I discovered that apparently Spike had told nobody outside his immediate family about the wedding.
He phoned me the next day and asked if my diary was in front of me.
“Yes.”
“On today’s page write, ‘Reload Pistol!’ That’s what I’ve written in mine!”
He was due to go to South Africa on 15 August but the week before he phoned to say he could not. I expected to be told about his honeymoon plans, but then he explained his reasons. He could not stand the piped music that was played as passengers boarded the plane. It gave him a migraine and he could not possibly fly with a migraine. This ranked high among the bizarre excuses he made for refusing to do what somebody else wanted. In all the years, over all the flights, he had never complained about the music. What if the airline switched off the music? I tried the regional manager but got nowhere, so I persuaded Spike to write to Mr. Fran Swartz, the head of South African Airlines. Back came the reply with a crate of South African wine. Certainly, he said. This seemed too good to be true so I double-checked with Mr. Swartz’s office and within days he had sent a telex to his London staff with a copy for Spike to take when he boarded the plane.
I never told Ronnie Quibell about this performance. There had been enough trouble for him before Spike flew out, when Spike had suddenly insisted that he needed a road manager, also a first. Ronnie had been against this because it was unnecessary and expensive, but he understood how to handle Spike and agreed.
“Spike,” I asked, “do you have anyone in mind or shall I start asking around to see if anyone would like to accompany you on the tour?”
He was so transparent.
“No. I’ve already got somebody in mind. Patrick O’Neill needs the money and he knows my props. He’ll do. I’ll phone him.”
Of course, I knew that Spike had already made arrangements with Patrick. Poor, poor Ronnie Quibell.
“I’ve come to support Patrick.”
I knew he was not joking. I said I was not his enemy and he had got it the wrong way round. “I’m negotiating for your money.”
“I’m supporting him against you,” he repeated.
This was crazy. Then I had a brainwave. I guessed the meeting was about Patrick not wanting to pay Spike a guarantee, which he had not wanted to do for the last tour. I had to use words Spike would understand, and from experience I knew what they were. “He does not want to pay you your wages.”
What a transformation. He looked at me and then looked at Patrick. The survivor in him then emerged.
“Oh, Pat. That’s not right. I need my wages. Sorry, lad, I did my best for you.”
Spike got up and left my office. Patrick followed. I turned to the photo of Anthony Hopkins. “That’s the most surreal moment you’ll ever see. You like comedians. That is a comedian.”
I got my guarantee and the tour went ahead. It was a disaster. Spike phoned from Dublin and at some length explained that there was a noisy air vent outside his room and he could not sleep. He had taken the sheets and blankets from the hotel and now his bed was in his dressing room at the theatre. Nobody was looking after him. “I warned you I wouldn’t pick up the pieces if things went wrong and that you’d have to rely on Patrick to sort it out.”
He banged down the phone. A minute later it rang again.
“The worst thing in a human being is a lack of compassion. You’ve got it in abundance.”
The next day there was the usual bouquet of flowers. The note read, “WITH LOVE. HOPE THIS MAKES THE DAY BETTER FOR YOU. LOVE SPIKE.” Ironic, I thought. He was the one who tried to upset my day. Spike sent me flowers throughout our time together, not only when he was feeling guilty but also when the occasion struck him. I still miss them, not the flowers so much as the accompanying notes. However, this time the flowers did not herald a real change as his vindictive mood continued.
Whenever Spike got involved in business it ended in disaster, simply because he did not understand anything about it. Now, prompted by some wild misunderstanding, he vented his ignorance and aggression on his editor, Jack Hobbs, who had become one of his best friends. Shortly after the O’Neill tour, without any warning or consultation, he wrote to Jack Hobbs and Dick Douglas Boyd at Michael Joseph, “I would like to reassess my relationship with Jack Hobbs and Michael Joseph.” The reason, he explained, was because Jack had earned royalties from Sir Nobonk when the illustrator, Carol Barker, should have been the recipient. This was completely inaccurate, incidentally. I wondered what had started this vicious nonsense. Spike did not understand the meaning of royalties or contracts. He and Jack had worked together since 1968 and nothing like this had ever been mentioned.
Jack replied saying the letter had come “like a bolt from the blue”. He explained that Spike had got the situation totally wrong. Spike Milligan Productions had a contract with Carol Barker and the royalty split was agreed by her agent. He had a contract with Michael Joseph, “one that does not affect your earnings. I take no part of your royalty nor do you pay me in any way.”
I reassured Jack that the whole thing would die down, although I was taken aback by the vitriol of the language in Spike’s letter. But I was wrong. Spike told me he was going to form his own publishing company, Monkenhurst Books. His daughters, Silé and Jane, would run it, and in future they would publish all his books. “You’d better sign on at the Finchley Labour Exchange,” I said. Normally, that would have raised a laugh and I would have got the usual Milligan face saver – “I’m putting the phone down. You put the phone down and we’ll both cool off. I’ll ring you later.” But this time he was furious. One of our coldest exchanges ensued.
Calmly, I asked him what was wrong. “You’ve been unbearable for months,” I said, and reminded him how viciously he had treated Jack Hobbs. “I want no part of that. It seems you want to go it alone so you’d better find another manager.” From now on I would pay Eric the rent for my office because I needed a base, and this would avoid having to change my stationery. The words came out as smoothly as if they had been rehearsed. I felt as if somebody else was speaking.
Remaining, for once, equally calm, Spike said that he needed me to be a director of Monkenhurst Books so I could run the business.
“That’s not going to happen,” I said. “I want nothing to do with the company and I won’t help in any way.”
Very quietly he said, “This time you mean it, Norm, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
He put down the phone.
The following evening I took a very upset Jack Hobbs out to dinner. Strangely, he repeated what Harry Edgington had said. “He’s changing. His personality is completely different from what it was. A few years ago he would never have sent such a letter to me.”
Four days later Spike wrote a long letter to Jack in an attempt to justify his appalling behaviour. It ended, “Anyhow, I desperately want to see you again, have dinner and a laugh. I will not feel happy until I see you again as a friend.” I had asked him to apologize to Jack, but Spike could not climb down and just say sorry. That day Spike chipped away a tiny bit of the affection and friendship I had for him.
Then the inevitable occurred. Monkenhurst Books was stillborn. Spike admitted that it had been a failure and wrote to Dick Douglas Boyd to say he wanted to hand everything back to Michael Joseph. He seemed angry because Jack would not help him, adding, “He threw a huff and decided not to have anymore to do with me. So fares the human race in friendship.” How about that for hypocrisy.
I continued as Spike’s manager but I never forgot his treatment of Jack Hobbs, a sensitive, gentle soul. Eventually they made it up but things were not quite the same between them. Jack and I continued as normal, going out for dinner and listening to Alan Clare on the piano, the three of us swapping outrageous Milligan stories and laughing so much. Spike was the loser.
While all this was going on there was some light relief. We arrived at the office one day to find it had been burgled. Some quite valuable pieces were missing, including a costly, framed Persian rug, office equipment and cheque books. But Spike was not interested in any of that.
“The bastard has stolen my trumpet.”
Everyone in the building heard, and everyone had to be equally concerned. The same refrain was repeated throughout the day. It was his beloved trumpet, the one he had played in dance bands in the Thirties and during the war. He had once stolen cigarettes to buy a trumpet and this one was much better. He would spend hours playing it as he sat on the bed in his office, and “Laura”, “Body and Soul” and “Rainy Day” provided the regular soundtrack for Number Nine.
Spike wanted his trumpet back, and work, family, friends, none meant a thing until he could put it back to his lips once more. That “dear old trumpet” was not quite as old as all that. A man from Boosey and Hawkes told me long ago that so many parts of the instrument had been replaced that little was left of the original, and if Spike thought he was playing the one from the Thirties he was very much mistaken. But now was not the time to disillusion him. When the police failed to recover the trumpet within twenty-four hours it was “What do we pay them for?” and so on. Spike became the super sleuth of Bayswater. He pestered shopkeepers, tramps, pickpockets and the ladies of the street, all of whom normally passed the time of day with him, and asked them to let him know of any thieves operating in the area. He asked ex-cons, wide boys and those operating on the fringe of legality to tell him if they heard anything on the grapevine. To ease their memories he offered a reward of £1000. And every day he badgered the police at the Harrow Road station about it until a Sergeant Bennett came to see me.
“Ask him to lay off about his trumpet, miss, please.” He looked exhausted and I knew the feeling. I described the tatty blue cardboard case in which the instrument was kept and sent him on his way.
For almost three weeks Spike refused to discuss anything other than his trumpet. If anyone managed to get through to him to talk business they were cut short.
“Don’t you realize someone has stolen my trumpet, the trumpet I’ve had since I was a lad, the trumpet that went through the war with me and the one I’ve played every day of my life?” (An exaggeration but so was the man himself.) “And you have the temerity to try to talk business with me.”
I was getting very anxious because if the trumpet did not turn up the mania could distil into a depression that would spoil every project I had planned for months to come. Then one day a policeman, not poor Sergeant Bennett, arrived with photographs of an instrument case. It was the very one. Spike had caused so much kerfuffle at Harrow Road and elsewhere that the boys of the Met, who thought the world of him – he had done many charity concerts for them – had put the word out to every station to keep an eye open for his trumpet. So when there was a call to attend a disturbance at a house in Warwick Road an alert copper noticed a scruffy blue case and there was Spike’s trumpet. Stashed in another room was the Persian rug, along with some of the stolen objets d’art.
Suddenly, instead of the police being “useless buggers” they became “grand lads”, and those involved were invited to dinner at the Trattoo. That night they established a house record for the number of bottles of wine drunk at one party, and that is not taking into account the bottles of beer and spirits.
After the next day’s hangover had faded I heard the strains of “Rainy Day” coming from his office, and so normality, if there ever was such a thing, returned to Number Nine.
In December Spike opened his one-man show at the Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith. Within days of opening Spike rang to say Patrick O’Neill was short of money. Could Spike Milligan Productions lend him some so he could honour his commitment at the theatre?
“No, Spike. He’s your friend. You lend it to him.”
Happy Christmas, Spike.
Maybe 1983 would be different. But within weeks I had the evidence that nothing would change. Despite my advice Spike had made the loan to Patrick. His excuse was that there was no alternative: the performance had been advertised so it would reflect negatively on him if it did not take place.
“I don’t want to know any more. And spare me the details,” I said.
“You are my business manager. You need to know where my money is. I’ve let him have £10,000.”
“Of your own money. That’s a personal loan and has nothing to do with me. I look after your business affairs. And what’s more, I was against this tour in the first place.”
I reminded him that there was a busy year ahead of us and I needed to concentrate on business. He was furious and marched out of my office. On 11 January he was due to do a Kellogg’s commercial and I consoled myself with the thought that this would make up for the money due to us from the Lyric, money I knew we would never get. The commercial was a great success so on 24 January, in Spike’s presence, I wrote in my diary that he had promised, once again, to start on the fifth volume of his war memoirs. Two days later I opened my diary and alongside the entry found he had written, “SO?”
A few days later Equity telephoned to say that Spike had broken their ban on actors working on commercials. I had to attend the meeting because my signature was on the contract. The attitude of the officials made it a nightmare. Spike was a high-profile member and his breach was very damaging to the union. They decided that the only course was for Spike Milligan Productions to return the fee. I told them they could tell Spike they wanted the money. Anyway, I had not had a letter informing me of a ban and was unaware that one existed. The officials said they would convene a council meeting and let me know of their decision. I demanded evidence of the date of the ban and the date they had informed their members. They said the ruling had been made on 17 January. I had signed the contract on 10 January and the work was completed the following day; it just so happened that the commercial had been televised after the ban was enforced, but that did not put us in breach of it. Collapse of complaint but I was annoyed by Equity’s autocratic behaviour.
I usually kept anything like this from Spike but foolishly I told him about the meeting. “One of them acted as though he was Adolf Hitler and I was a rabbi’s wife.” Spike wrote to the general secretary, Peter Plouvier, who had not been present, and we heard no more about it.
Then came a chink of light. Jack Hobbs was brought back on track after he agreed to a meeting with Spike to discuss the war memoirs. Afterwards Spike wrote to Michael Joseph, Jack and me to say he would make a start in June after his tour of Australia and New Zealand. While in Australia he sent me a telegram on 16 April: “I’m 65 today. Remind me to die or get a bus pass.” I sent him a card:
ABOUT 80 BIRTHDAY CARDS WAITING. IF
a. I send them it’ll be “wasting fucking money on postage.”
b. I do not keep them for your return it’ll be “What do you mean? I wanted to see the cards from my fans.”
c. If I do keep them for your return it’ll be “Why did you keep these? My fucking birthday was two months ago.”
PLEASE TICK. ERIC SYKES SAYS, “WHERE APPLICABLE”.
Spike phoned as soon as he received the card. He loved it and, laughing, he said, “Oh, Norm. What have I done to you? It sounded just like me. Through all the tension you’ve managed to keep your sense of humour. I’m right, you are my sunshine girl.”
Yes, I thought, for today anyway. He would be my sunshine man if he kept his promise to start volume five in June. Of course when he came back he did not start on it. He was having trouble with his eye and decided he needed an operation. Operations were meat and drink to Spike. About one a year became par for the course. He went to see an eye surgeon, Eric Arnott, and after the consultation at 7 Queen Anne Street Spike returned to the office. What was the verdict?
“It’s the worst building I’ve ever seen.”
“Never mind the building. What about your eye?”
Spike brushed that aside. He had the operation, which was successful, and then wrote to Mr. Arnott about his building. Mr. Arnott protested that it had won the Queen’s Award for Architecture. Spike wrote back. “That does not mean a thing. She wears glasses as well.” He was far more in sympathy with Prince Charles’s opinions on architecture.
Later he was told he needed another operation on his eyes. He decided he wanted to speak to Mr. Arnott again for reassurance. Luckily for Mr. Arnott his phone was not working so Spike sent him a letter. “This is to report that both telephones in the Queen’s Award for Architecture building are out of order. Would your secretary please phone me?” Mr. Arnott did not call back, but Spike decided to ring me again late one night. Without preamble he said, “Listen. I’m not going to worry about my eye. Nelson did all right and he got Lady Hamilton.”
He was out of the office for a while. I wondered what was keeping his attention. On 28 July he phoned in the afternoon.
“I’ve just written in my diary, ‘SHOOT MYSELF’. Put it in your diary.”
“If you’re going to do it, do it at home and not in the office.” He laughed and hung up. I thought no more about it. The next morning, just before noon, I phoned him at Monkenhurst to say that Michael Joseph were putting on the pressure for the fifth volume of the memoir and wanted to know if he had started it.
“I told them you hadn’t.”
“Not now.”
“If not now, when?”
“Can’t you ever leave me alone? I’m getting married today. Shelagh wants to get married on the same date as Princess Diana did and that’s today.” He put the phone down.
The slightest puff from Puff the Magic Dragon would have knocked me over. I knew he meant it. My first thought was about the South Africa tour contract I had signed. Oh God, I prayed. He was meant to leave in the middle of August. Please God, no honeymoon.
I tried to collect my thoughts. Earlier he made out he had got engaged to please Shelagh, but had never mentioned the possibility of marriage. Spike was aware that not all his close friends approved of the relationship. Later I discovered that apparently Spike had told nobody outside his immediate family about the wedding.
He phoned me the next day and asked if my diary was in front of me.
“Yes.”
“On today’s page write, ‘Reload Pistol!’ That’s what I’ve written in mine!”
He was due to go to South Africa on 15 August but the week before he phoned to say he could not. I expected to be told about his honeymoon plans, but then he explained his reasons. He could not stand the piped music that was played as passengers boarded the plane. It gave him a migraine and he could not possibly fly with a migraine. This ranked high among the bizarre excuses he made for refusing to do what somebody else wanted. In all the years, over all the flights, he had never complained about the music. What if the airline switched off the music? I tried the regional manager but got nowhere, so I persuaded Spike to write to Mr. Fran Swartz, the head of South African Airlines. Back came the reply with a crate of South African wine. Certainly, he said. This seemed too good to be true so I double-checked with Mr. Swartz’s office and within days he had sent a telex to his London staff with a copy for Spike to take when he boarded the plane.
I never told Ronnie Quibell about this performance. There had been enough trouble for him before Spike flew out, when Spike had suddenly insisted that he needed a road manager, also a first. Ronnie had been against this because it was unnecessary and expensive, but he understood how to handle Spike and agreed.
“Spike,” I asked, “do you have anyone in mind or shall I start asking around to see if anyone would like to accompany you on the tour?”
He was so transparent.
“No. I’ve already got somebody in mind. Patrick O’Neill needs the money and he knows my props. He’ll do. I’ll phone him.”
Of course, I knew that Spike had already made arrangements with Patrick. Poor, poor Ronnie Quibell.
