opposite number.
Godfrey flew on to Canada, and Ian made his way to Washington. In October there was to be an Anglo-American joint conference in Jamaica. Ian had never visited the island, although both Conrad O’Brien Ffrench and his mother’s lover, Augustus John, had been inspired to paint it, and he may well, before the war, have seen some of those paintings. And in the 1930s, Ivar Bryce had bought Bellevue, a mid-eighteenth-century plantation house, in Jamaica. He would be attending the conference too.
Bryce had just arrived, and was at the airfield to meet Fleming off the plane from Washington. With the coming of war, Bellevue had been largely unoccupied except for one live-in caretaker-housekeeper. Rather than leave him to sleep at the Myrtle Bank Hotel in Kingston with the others, he took him back there. It was a 10-mile drive away, in darkness over bad roads and in a tropical rainstorm. Bellevue, as the name indicates, was on a hilltop. When they arrived they had to park the car down the hill and haul their own suitcases up to the house before getting in, shaking themselves dry like dogs and awakening the housekeeper to provide some refreshment. It was hot and rainy ‘to the point that little toadstools appeared in our leather shoes during the night’. Bryce felt dreadful. He wished he hadn’t suggested this.
That first night, they sat on the veranda drinking grenadine and water and waiting for the chicken to be cooked. They stared out at a deep starry sky through curtains of rain splashing relentlessly off the roof. Behind them was a tall gallery, 65ft wide by 65ft deep, with ‘a double door and two windows penetrating the bookshelves and giving access to the hurricane room’ behind. Admiral Lord Nelson had convalesced there after a fever.
In the morning, the sky had cleared. They could look down the hill across miles of tropical flowers and trees to the port of Kingston and sunshine sparkling on the blue Caribbean.
They ate chicken and drank gin just about every night, and bought a lot of fruit. Ian seemed happy. He and Bryce left for Washington in the same plane. Bryce wrote:
Having gone over and over his notes with intense concentration for hours, he suddenly snapped his brief-box shut and turned to me sparkling with enthusiasm. He paused. ‘You know, Ivar, I have made a great decision.’ I waited, nervous of the news to come. ‘When we have won this blasted war, I am going to live in Jamaica. Just live in Jamaica and lap it up, and swim in the sea and write books. That is what I want to do.’
He asked Bryce to find him 10 acres or so, away from towns and on the coast. Bryce promised to get his agent, Reggie Acquart, to look for somewhere. Then he forgot about it.
• 6 •
MORE WAR
• N OSTALGIA •
In London, Ian worked long hours. Anne O’Neill had been living in the country with her two children while her husband remained in Northern Ireland. She had seen less of Ian since the beginning of the war. She was still having an affair with Esmond Harmsworth, the second Viscount Rothermere, a divorcé with three children who was fifteen years older than she was. At the start of 1941 she had given a New Year party at the Dorchester, where she sometimes stayed; Ian was among the guests. Ian was lucky in the Blitz, although he had narrow escapes from raids at the Carlton, at Sefton Delmer’s flat in Lincoln’s Inn and in Dover. His flat at Ebury Street, with its skylight high on the roof, was not properly blacked out, so throughout the winter he stayed at clubs or hotels. One night, after a dinner and frightened by bombs falling in the West End, Anne decided to spend a night at the Lansdowne Club with him.
It was not a ménage à trois exactly; there was no ménage , but in the spring of 1941 there were vacances à trois , since according to Anne, she and Esmond and Ian took an unfortunate holiday in Cornwall together because Ian bullied them into it. They drove, and she was carsick all the
Godfrey flew on to Canada, and Ian made his way to Washington. In October there was to be an Anglo-American joint conference in Jamaica. Ian had never visited the island, although both Conrad O’Brien Ffrench and his mother’s lover, Augustus John, had been inspired to paint it, and he may well, before the war, have seen some of those paintings. And in the 1930s, Ivar Bryce had bought Bellevue, a mid-eighteenth-century plantation house, in Jamaica. He would be attending the conference too.
Bryce had just arrived, and was at the airfield to meet Fleming off the plane from Washington. With the coming of war, Bellevue had been largely unoccupied except for one live-in caretaker-housekeeper. Rather than leave him to sleep at the Myrtle Bank Hotel in Kingston with the others, he took him back there. It was a 10-mile drive away, in darkness over bad roads and in a tropical rainstorm. Bellevue, as the name indicates, was on a hilltop. When they arrived they had to park the car down the hill and haul their own suitcases up to the house before getting in, shaking themselves dry like dogs and awakening the housekeeper to provide some refreshment. It was hot and rainy ‘to the point that little toadstools appeared in our leather shoes during the night’. Bryce felt dreadful. He wished he hadn’t suggested this.
That first night, they sat on the veranda drinking grenadine and water and waiting for the chicken to be cooked. They stared out at a deep starry sky through curtains of rain splashing relentlessly off the roof. Behind them was a tall gallery, 65ft wide by 65ft deep, with ‘a double door and two windows penetrating the bookshelves and giving access to the hurricane room’ behind. Admiral Lord Nelson had convalesced there after a fever.
In the morning, the sky had cleared. They could look down the hill across miles of tropical flowers and trees to the port of Kingston and sunshine sparkling on the blue Caribbean.
They ate chicken and drank gin just about every night, and bought a lot of fruit. Ian seemed happy. He and Bryce left for Washington in the same plane. Bryce wrote:
Having gone over and over his notes with intense concentration for hours, he suddenly snapped his brief-box shut and turned to me sparkling with enthusiasm. He paused. ‘You know, Ivar, I have made a great decision.’ I waited, nervous of the news to come. ‘When we have won this blasted war, I am going to live in Jamaica. Just live in Jamaica and lap it up, and swim in the sea and write books. That is what I want to do.’
He asked Bryce to find him 10 acres or so, away from towns and on the coast. Bryce promised to get his agent, Reggie Acquart, to look for somewhere. Then he forgot about it.
• 6 •
MORE WAR
• N OSTALGIA •
In London, Ian worked long hours. Anne O’Neill had been living in the country with her two children while her husband remained in Northern Ireland. She had seen less of Ian since the beginning of the war. She was still having an affair with Esmond Harmsworth, the second Viscount Rothermere, a divorcé with three children who was fifteen years older than she was. At the start of 1941 she had given a New Year party at the Dorchester, where she sometimes stayed; Ian was among the guests. Ian was lucky in the Blitz, although he had narrow escapes from raids at the Carlton, at Sefton Delmer’s flat in Lincoln’s Inn and in Dover. His flat at Ebury Street, with its skylight high on the roof, was not properly blacked out, so throughout the winter he stayed at clubs or hotels. One night, after a dinner and frightened by bombs falling in the West End, Anne decided to spend a night at the Lansdowne Club with him.
It was not a ménage à trois exactly; there was no ménage , but in the spring of 1941 there were vacances à trois , since according to Anne, she and Esmond and Ian took an unfortunate holiday in Cornwall together because Ian bullied them into it. They drove, and she was carsick all the
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