When Ada and Stan bought Apple Tree cottage in a remote village in the New Forest, they had no idea that their retirement dream would become such a special sanctuary for so many people.

Weeks after renovation work was done, this kind couple decided to use the tiny rooms upstairs for income:  a B&B.  There was a a pleasant front bedroom ( overlooking a quiet road) where,  when they left their gate open, a troupe of donkeys would wander in, looking for apple windfalls in their front garden. A cosy sitting-room, at the back, overlooked fields, where their pony, Copper, was kept. And a tiny bathroom completed the suite of rooms.

For twenty years, clients would turn up for the peaceful rest and relaxation the place offered. Many came from overseas: Australia, Belgium, France, Canada.  But the majority of their guests were British.

The ‘Visitors’ Book’ was Ada’s pride and joy.  All the ‘comments’ were positive. Some people even wrote poems about the delights of their stay. Many people returned yearly. One couple, from Ashford in Kent, had visited 23 times! Others had been for six or seven times. One lady from France wrote : ‘Unique’, after her visit.

They were simple, good people, and they had created a modest, unpretentious oasis of tranquillity. In these tiny, warm rooms, it was possible to forget the world outside, to feel  safe and cherished . Utterly at peace. They provided everything necessary to make a visit there perfect: Ordinance survey maps ( for the walkers); storm lanterns, torches ( when the power failed); delicious biscuits , coffees and teas; binoculars; illustrated books and information about the environment.  Even menus from the local pubs.

My diary records how happy and ecstatic I felt during my pregnancy. I was convinced ( in these days before scans) that my baby would be a boy that I would name Alexander James.

On February 24th, 1973 – two weeks before his birth, on March 11th. 1973:

‘ Thank God for little Alexander inside me. How I want this child and long for him, and want to look after him’.

I rang Jonathan , from the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson Hospital for Women, in Hampstead, to tell him about Alexander’s birth.  He was kind and congratulatory, and pleased that everything had gone wellWe were to meet almost a year later, when he called to see his son.  He brought with him a copy of his latest book  Soft City, and gave me a signed copy.

We had both been busy that year.

After that,he took us both out to a visit to London Zoo, followed by tea at the Ritz, but he made it clear that he would have no further involvement with us.

I decided to book a flight to Australia very soon after. I would take Alex with me to visit my father.

I was coming out of the shadows now. This was to become a new chapter in my life.

During these early weeks and months of my pregnancy, I continued working for Mel at the ‘Workshop’, earning a pittance and my 5% commission, but perfectly happy;  and spending evenings and weekend as a  flaneuse’ about town

. I was reading  the autobiography of V.S. Pritchett, beginning with Vo.1 :A Cab at the  Door. I was also trying to improve my poetic techniques; and was reading Paul Fussell’s  Poetic Metre and Poetic Form’.

I was seeing George quite a lot. He felt genuine concern and pain for me in my predicament as a ‘single parent’; and quite wished he had a son on the way. He was later to become a father, with his second wife.

George would gossip about the Raban-Ricks controversy that had been played out in the pages of The Listener recently; and how William Empson had written a letter in Jonathan’s defence, and make jokes about the poet, Douglas Dunn. Soon, George would be off to Israel on an Arts Council poetry reading junket with Adrian Mitchell, Hugo Williams and Robert Conquest.

I went with Jonathan to pick up the keys to his new flat at the Lowell’s place – 80, Redcliffe Square, but found that the door was locked from the inside . He blameg this on Israel, Caroline Blackwood’s former husband, who had previously lived  there.

I announced the news of my pregnancy while dining with Jonathan at ‘L’Artiste Affame’. In my distress at telling him, I burnt my tongue on the boiling oil of the meat fondue we were dipping into.

  The happy event was  not well-received by him. Unsurprisingly. I had not knowingly or willingly tried to conceive a child with him.

However, to be fair,  in the following weeks, Jonathan’s moods ranged from ‘joy’ at the thought  of a child , to the  utter horror of the prospect of ‘the pram in the hall’.

Either way, his  reactions  were  ‘all over the place’. He mentioned how the literary critic, Bonamy  Dobree, had had an illegitmate child with his father,Peter Raban’s sister, which made little sense to me.

In contrast, my beloved employers – Mel Calman and Karen Usborne – were overjoyed by my happy news. They clucked and fussed over me at work;  urging me to sit down and rest; rushing out to buy me fried egg sandwiches ( my current craving) from the ‘greasy spoon’ caff next door. They then gave me the keys to their flat ( to use in order for me  to have a ‘lie down’ during the day),  promised that I could continue in my job -. and that I could bring the baby with me to work, once he or she was born.  Finally, they whisked me down to their country cottage in Kent to relax and to  have a little holiday.

They were both marvellously kind to me, and I shall forever be indebted to them for their support and nurturing in my hour of need.

For years, I had considered myself to be infertile. I was  currently ‘under investigation’ at the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson hospital’s Infertility Clinic at the time; and when the doctors there confirmed that I was pregnant, the unit was overjoyed for me.

They, and Karen Usborne both counselled me that this baby could be ‘my only chance’. So I was determined to go ahead, whether Jonathan was involved, or not. And so I did.

Karen and Mel were not the only friends that I had who spoiled me.

George would take me out to dine at  ‘The Barque and Bite’, and The Trattoria Terraza  to make sure that I ate properly, and to keep me ‘up to speed’ with all manner of literary gossip.

Over my insalata alla Sinatra, Dover sole, with shrimps, mushrooms, cauliflower and sauce gratinee, followed by fruit salad, George would read to me from the diaries he kept in the 1940s – as  a little boy – full of price lists, facts and figures.

The writer and a friend from UEA, Clive Sinclair , would take me ‘out and about’ to restaurants, the theatre and parties. I remember that  we went to see a production of Twelfth Night,  in which Vanessa Redgrave, Ann Beach and Nyree Dawn Porter played the starring roles.

Jonathan would continue to phone, from time to time, to  see how I was, from his duplex flat in the basement of Robert Lowell’s home.

June 1972 was to be a momentous  month for me.

At the Workshop gallery, we mounted an exhibition for the British Cartoonist’s Association. The ‘Private View’ was well-attended. Harold Evans, Elkan Allan, Jill Tweedie and Alan Brien pitched up and bought work by Low, and others. The  Evening Standard  reported it  as :

‘A confusion of Cartoonists/ A  funfare show of work by most of Fleet Street’s best-known exponents, including some by Low. Fascinating to see how the most talented shine out, regardless of the different persuasions of their papers. All are for sale, from £5-£25’.

Jonathan was back from America, where he had been lecturing, and came into the gallery on June 7th.

He was in a cheerful mood, and about to move into a flat owned by Robert Lowell, in Earls Court. 80, Redcliffe Court.

I was still very involved in his life, and still  ‘in love’ with him . Playing Cupid , Mel gave me the afternoon off, so Jonathan and I   went across the road  for lunch at ‘The Lamb’, drank champagne;  got a little drunk; walked round Coram Fields; and returned to his flat,where we made love. It was a warm and beautifully fresh summer’s day. When I spoke to Jonathan about how unsure I was about ‘the career path’ I was on, he responded by saying : ‘Make me your career’.

When he  told me that I was still ‘the love of his life’, and  the only person who truly  mattered to him, and how much he had missed me, I had never felt happier.  And it was  was on that day in June  that our  son, Alexander James, was conceived.

When he was born, nine joyous  months later, I asked Mel to be his godfather.

Later that evening, Jonathan told me about the work he was doing He had just finished writing a novel that was going to be published by Constable. He had also been recording a radio play for the BBC called ‘A Game of Tombola’

He also told me that Lowell was about to be awarded an honorary degree by the University of East Anglia ; and that Angus Wilson had telephoned him for anecdotes  about Lowell. One that came to mind was the fact that inspite of being an excellent fisherman, Lowell would often fall into rivers, while fishing!

Meanwhile, at the age of 30, he had just become a member of the Savile Club.