In the years between 1965 and 1971, I had had a rather tumultous and unsettled time.

I had bravely begun a course in Philosophy at the University of Birmingham ( it was the era of Gilbert Ryle’s ‘Concept of Mind’);  had discovered that I wasn’t suited to Logic and truth tables; had dropped out, gone to work at the Victoria and Albert museum, as a museum assistant; had then left and taken a course in Fine Art at the University of East Anglia, and graduated, this time, with a 2:1.

Throughout these times, I had continued to write poetry, and  had been published in a variety of little magazines:  Mermaid, Scrip, Breakthru, Preface,Sun, Iconolate and Plain Poetry.  I had joined the Poetry Society and met and become friends with the poets Frances and Michael Horowitz and George Macbeth at poetry readings that I attended.

Then, on Thursday, 3 July, 1969, Derwent May, the literary editor of  The Listener, kindly accepted a poem of mine: ‘ Concerning the Spiritual in Motherhood’.

I was elated.

The launch went well. Andre made an appearance and a great impression on me, too, with his wonderful Continental style and charm ( he was Hungarian).  He had fine, blue eyes and wore an immaculately-tailored suit. Again, he knew all our names and what we had written and was genuinely interested in us.

Certainly, the publishers had done us proud, by producing a fine hard-back book, with an introduction by Sir Herbert Read, and an elegant jacket design by Annette Green.  Perhaps the directors had hoped to net a future poet laureate from among us; ( not sure that they were successful in this; but it was a brave and imaginative punt!) but, as it was, we were added to  a very impressive poetry list which included volumes by Roy Fuller, Geoffrey Hill, David Gascoyne, Elizabeth Jennings, Norman Mailer, Stevie Smith, Peter Levi, Laurie Lee, David Wright and John Updike.

By the time the book was published, most of us were at university ( we were an elite and over-privileged group of young people, in those days), and our poems were immature juvenilia ,  but I certainly appreciated being published so young.

I wasn’t to be in touch with Diana again until 1971.

I first met Diana Athill in 1965 at the offices of Andre Deutsch at 105, Great Russell Street, and was to keep in touch with her for many years after that. However, on this occasion, I was one of a group of twenty-five Sixth Formers, who had been invited to an At Home by the directors of the publishing house to celebrate the launch of an anthology of verse to which we had all contributed: ‘Sprouts on Helicon’.

We were a very uneven group: twenty-two boys and three girls, and the only thing we had in common was that we had all been published in the journal Sixth Form Opinion.

Astonishingly, sixteen of the boys were from top-flight public schools: Bedales, Eton, Westminster and Winchester, among others; and the rest of us were from the ‘standard issue’ single-sex grammar schools of the day; with not one representative from a comprehensive.

We were asked to meet at the very grown-up time of 6-8pm ( I still have my invitation) on Wednesday, April 21st, and , as far as I can  remember, no parents were present.  Mine (divorced) certainly weren’t.

But Diana welcomed us all individually, with great warmth,  treated us all as serious  adult authors, worthy of respect, and completely  ignored the fact that we were just a bunch of  teenagers.

I thought she was terrific.  She also looked marvellous with her corn-gold upswept hair, smart clothes and chic black horn-rimmed spectacles.  She was super-organised, energetic and kind. I had never met anyone like her before.

 

 

My meeting with Francis took place some time in 1970, but I have no record of the precise date.   I was given Francis’ address in Belsize Park by my father, who told me that Francis wanted to find out more about my father’s life and modus operandi.

I arrived, in the early evening, at a large, sombre house in Belsize Avenue, I believe, rang the bell, and was greeted by Francis.  He had invited me to supper.

His apartment astonished me.  There were large, glass cabinets everywhere, containing artefacts and specimens – anthropological finds.  I didn’t look too closely at them. On the walls hung many carved masks; and the floor was covered in sumptous textile rugs.

In the corner, near the galley kitchen, was a round table, set for supper, with two cosy chairs.   A comfortable, deep sofa, covered in  dull crimson velvet was placed under a window.  I could see the leaves of the plane tree outside, flickering green darts in the soft evening light. There was a feeling of warmth in the room. It was gemutlich.

‘Do sit down’, he gestured to the sofa.

‘Tell me about your father’.

I didn’t know where to start.  I spoke about his kindness, energy, enthusiasm for life, spiritual beliefs and love of people.

But Francis appeared disappointed in my account of my father. I was perplexed. I was too young and immature – and too close to the subject- to be of much use. I wasn’t giving him the answers that he wanted.

To me, Francis appeared to be a very troubled, dark individual. He looked grumpy and miserable . He hardly smiled, and seemed  utterly charmless.  But he had the most elegant manners, and was gracious to me, inspite of my short-comings.

‘I’ll make us some supper’, he said brightly, and disappeared into the kitchen.

‘Would you like to hear some music’, he called out to me.

‘Yes, I would’, I replied.  Relieved that his mood had brightened.

 

 

 

 

 

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I have no idea how my father became friends with Francis Huxley.  But I do know that Francis was intrigued by my father’s charismatic personality.  Francis believed that my father had shaman-like qualities, and that he could transform people’s lives.  To me, my father was more  showman than shaman, although he was also a deeply spiritual and altruistic man,too.

Born in 1908, my father was thirty-one when the 1939-45 war began, and was selected to be an officer in British Intelligence. Like many men in the same position, he was to work for M16 for the rest of his life.  He often hinted at the somewhat shady world of ‘safe houses’ and general intrigue that he inhabited. I could never quite grasp how his world operated, and began to see  him as a rather  dubious  sort of John le Carre figure; the ‘perfect spy’, and I never knew if his place in the world was part-fantasy, or not. The Official Secrets Act forbade any explanations.

His ‘cover’ was to be a graphologist.  An unusual occupation, but a subject that he was passionate about.He also moved within an interesting circle of friend, which included Karl Haas, conductor of the London Mozart Players, Dame Ruth Railton, the founder of the National Youth Orchestra, and her husband, Lord Cecil Harmsworth King, head of the Mirror group of newspapers, and other people connected to them.

Dad was especially close to Cecil and Ruth, and I was taken to meet them both at their beautiful house in the grounds of Hampton Court. The visit didn’t go down to well, as Ruth, quite rightly, was appalled that I smoked cigarettes constantly.

Anyway, Francis wanted to learn more about my father’s shaman-like attributes, and asked if he could meet me .  A meeting was arranged.

 

On February 6th, 1972, I wrote the following note in my diary:

‘I am standing at a bookstall near Baker Street tube station. The loneliness of London overwhelms me.  Francis Huxley is standing beside me, looking haggard and tired. He is grey, ill.  I tell him about the peacefulness of Bruges ( where I have been living recently); and the power and beauty of Oslo (seen by me on a recent visit).  He both agree that we must never despise this life’.

Such a strange and random diary entry needs further explanation! I  had, in fact, just happened to bump into Francis at the station by chance that evening, although we had met formally a year before, when my father had introduced us. The brief exchange had some relevance, as we had discussed the delights of travel at our first meeting.

Francis, the son of Julian Huxley and nephew of Aldous,  died on 29th October 2016, aged 93 in California. In his obituary in the Guardian newspaper he was  described as ‘an anthropologist and author who was ‘fascinated by shamans, myths and religious rites’.

Most notably, he set us Survival International with Robin Hanbury-Tenison, an NGO, devoted to protecting the rights of indigenous peoples world-wide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On January 29th, 1970, with the late poet, George Macbeth, I took tea with Stevie Smith, at her humble, but legendary home in London: 1, Avondale Road, Palmer’s Green.

I was twenty-five, and an aspiring poet: Stevie had just won the Queen’s Medal for Poetry; and had only one more year to live.

It had taken some weeks to set up this rendez-vous.  Stevie’s diary was full.  At the zenith of her literary career, she was very much in demand.  Richly-deserved glittering prizes were now hers for the taking.

George drove us both from the BBC to Palmer’s Green in his louche Reliant Scimitar ( his current passion), almost as special to him as his growing collection of Japanese samurai swords.  It was already dark, as we snaked through the wintry London streets for our appointment with Stevie at four o’clock.

Stevie answered the door and asked us in with much warmth and enthusiasm. She seemed so pleased to see us.

I have a few mental snapshots of the day. Stevie: her wide, dark eyes, with their  alert and intelligent gaze; straight grey hair, cut in a shiny smooth bob. Her slender frame and the grey, pinafore dress with its ‘Peter Pan’ collar that she was wearing.

I recall her intense, eager interest in us both. Her delight in everything, especially literary gossip. Her elegant laugh.

I had bought Stevie a present. An illustrated Edwardian ‘Book of Friendship’, dated 1923. Stuffed with anecdotes about friendship. I felt that she appreciated it very much. I hoped that it would mark the beginning of our friendship, too.

She then showed me where she kept many of her books: inside her piano!.

We then asked her if she would show us the medal she had just received from the Queen.

Excitedly, like a child, she unwrapped it, and we all admired it, like a rare stone. I was designed by Edmund Dulac, whom we all revered. Stevie then regaled us with dry anecdotes about the Queen. She wasn’t entirely sure if Her Majesty had read much of her work, if any, but she was still thrilled to have received this prestigious accolade, and had enjoyed her visit to the Palace.

We talked animatedly about our literary likes and dislikes, discovering a shared admiration for Angus Wilson.  I was reading everything by him at the time.

Then, Stevie made us tea, served with delicate, little cakes, and  took us into the kitchen, where she  showed us a table covered with a thick, grey blanket.e

‘This is where I write’, she told us.

We stayed and talked  for over two hours . Lively chatter about food, love, life, writing and people.  I observed her cosy sitting room closely. The large portraits, in oval frames, of family members. The heavy, dark furniture. Sideboards and a mantlepiece covered with bric a brac and invitations to literary events. Lacquered boxes.

Later, in the car, George told me that our meeting had been a success. Apparently, Stevie had taken to me; she had liked me.

Days later, I received a pleasant letter from her. We had planned to meet again.

The three of us were going to have tea at the Ritz; then go on a picnic by the Thames, when the spring came.

But Stevie died of a brain tumour on March 7th, 1971 in Ashburton hospital, Devon. I was never to see her again.

 

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On  January 29th, 1970, accompanied by the late poet, George Macbeth, I took tea with Stevie Smith at her legendary home in London: 1, Avondale Road, Palmer’s Green.

I was twenty-five and an aspiring poet, dressed in the fashion of the day: a long, black coat with a wide-brimmed hat over long, honey-coloured hair. Stevie had just won the prestigious Queen’s Medal for Poetry; and had only one more year to live.

It had taken some weeks to set up this rendez-vous.  Stevie’s diary was full. At the zenith of her career, she was much in demand.  Richly-deserved glittering prizes were now hers for the taking.

George drove us both from the BBC to Stevie’s home in his louche Reliant Scimitar ( his current passion), almost as special to him as his growing collection of Japanese samurai swords. It was almost dark, as we snaked through the wintry, London streets for our appointment with Stevie at four o’clock.

 

 

 

 

 

In the the New Year, Lance painted with a renewed energy.  He relished  the life drawing classes at the SAC on Monday evenings, where all his fellow artists and models also enjoyed the company of his lovely dog, Kit, who was frequently drawn as well.

Whenever there was a warmish day, Lance would be at Falmer, Stanmer or in Alfriston, painting churches.

On February 12th, he painted a superb view of the ‘Cathedral of the Downs’  at Alfriston.  He invited me to accompany him on this outing, but I was unable to join him that day.

Little did we know, that this would be one of his last paintings.  Because in the hours of Tuesday morning – February 27th –  our dear friend, sadly died.

His death was a tremendous shock to us all.  He had been a little unwell, on the Monday, with a slight cough, but was feeling positive about a trip to the Gambia that he was planning.  In fact, he was meant to be leaving from Gatwick in the early hours of Tuesday morning.  Of course, he never made it.

At his funeral, On March 14th, his family asked me to read a eulogy about the six months that Lance spent in Sussex, which I was honoured to do.  It was also read  by one of his daughters, at his Memorial service in Street, Somerset, on April 19th.

I looked after Kit on that  poignant  day.

 

There is now a  framed cartoon drawn and painted by Lance hung on one of the walls at the Seaspray cafe, which we are happy – and sad – to look at every day.  A sweet reminder of our personal   and all- too -short memories of  dear Lance.