Kitabı oku: «My Bonnie: How dementia stole the love of my life», sayfa 2

Chapter 2

So what did it all mean? It seemed impossible that she might actually be interested in me. Let’s look at the facts. She—a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant born and educated in America. Moi—a rather dark-skinned (olive, I think, is the polite word) Londoner of slightly indeterminate European origin, from around half a dozen Central and Eastern European countries, at least if you go back a couple of generations or so, with a bit of English thrown in, and a totally British upbringing. We had nothing in common, absolutely nothing. Besides, she was married with two sons, to a decent man who, as far as I knew, was a caring father and husband, with a prestigious job that allowed him to provide them with a comfortable life. In short, Bonnie and I were physically, mentally, in every which way possible, polar opposites. What could possibly happen between us, ever?

Soon after we were finally together, I put these facts to her, in a desperate attempt to try to understand her folly. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I am utterly different to you, in origin, in looks, probably in everything.’ ‘So?’ she countered. I wasn’t going to be put off. ‘All right, I’m not a blonde, blue-eyed Adonis, you can’t argue against that.’ ‘No, I can’t,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want a blonde blue-eyed Adonis.’ ‘Right,’ I replied, gearing myself up for what I knew would be the knockout punch, ‘I am not six-foot two. OK? However you look at it, I am not bloody six-foot two. Not even on a good day.’ ‘So?’ she said, moving towards me. ‘Look,’ and she nestled her head neatly between my upper chest and my neck. ‘We are a perfect fit.’ ‘Darling, would you like some more tomatoes?’

‘I like tomatoes, all right? I like them. But I can’t eat them now while I’m having this lunch.’

‘Fine, darling.’

I couldn’t have known just how perfect the fit would be, in everything, absolutely everything, physical, mental and emotional. But before I relate how we began to discover that, I need to fill you in on the developments in my glittering career. For once, just once, it really was beginning to glitter.

I had joined ITN in the summer of 1972 in the same lowly capacity as at the BBC, only this time I managed to get the weather forecast and football results mostly right. I was soon promoted from junior scriptwriter to chief sub-editor, but my heart lay in reporting. More than anything else I wanted to be a reporter, to travel the world reporting for News at Ten, to be a ‘fireman’, to use the journalistic term—to go into work in the morning not knowing where in the world I would be that evening. After three years ITN announced it had a vacancy for a reporter, and would accept external as well as internal applications. I was pretty sure I stood no chance, but I also knew if I didn’t put in for it, I could kiss my ambitions goodbye. I applied. I did a camera test. I read yesterday’s news bulletin. I got the job.

When I left ITN 30 or so years later, my colleagues made a leaving video for me. They unearthed that camera test. A very young me, long hair halfway down to my shoulders, sideburns almost down to my chin, tinted glasses that went automatically darker under the studio lights, wide lapels. Very 1970s, very self-conscious, very gauche. No wonder it was years before Bonnie deigned to afford me a second glance.

The reporting went well, because I loved doing it. Do a job you love, and it’s hard to mess it up. ‘Suchet delivers,’ said the senior foreign desk editor. I did indeed travel the world. I covered the Iran revolution, the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. I was sent on an impossible mission to the teeming city of Algiers to find an Arab terrorist wanted for masterminding the Munich Olympics massacre: I found him and got an exclusive interview. One boring Sunday afternoon I sat at the reporters’ desk, twiddling my thumbs; three hours later I was on a chartered executive jet, flying to Spain to cover a hostage crisis. I attended the last Rhodesian Independence Ball before the country became Zimbabwe. In the late 1970s I came to know Belfast and Derry nearly as well as I knew London. My passport and contact lens solution were always in my briefcase.

Then the plum came up, the most important and prestigious position open to an ITN reporter: US correspondent, based in Washington; ITN’s only overseas posting. Back in 1973, as a junior scriptwriter, I had been sent to Washington to act as runner for the then US correspondent, as President Nixon became engulfed in the Watergate scandal. It was my first trip to the United States, and from the day I entered the ITN office, I coveted the job of US correspondent. It was not only an unrealistic ambition, it was an impossible one. No mere scriptwriter had ever become a reporter at ITN, let alone US correspondent. Well, I had achieved the first part of that impossible dream, and now the ultimate prize was open.

I applied for it, and got it. The then editor of ITN, David Nicholas, wrote me a letter telling me the job was mine, and expressing his assurance that I would bring the same distinction to it that I had shown as a general news reporter.

Of course I would. I had wanted this job for the best part of a decade. I had achieved the impossible. Now I would really show what I was capable of. Well, I certainly did that. I proceeded to make such a hash of it that it almost brought my career to a total halt. Doesn’t that have a rather familiar ring to it?

Yes, yours truly, ace reporter and superstar John Suchet, was about to prove, once again, how when offered his dream on a plate, he repaid his employers’ faith in him by messing it up. Big time. I had brought my career at Reuters to a halt with the decision to resign rather than take the job as bureau chief in Brazzaville. It was at Moya’s urging, but ultimately it was my decision. After that I almost got myself sacked by the BBC because my work was sloppy and careless, my attitude arrogant. But I came to my senses in time and just as the BBC was applauding my newfound commitment, I cut my losses and moved to ITN. Two damned close-run things had concentrated my mind, and when I began my career at ITN I was utterly determined not to fail. A third disaster would surely mean curtains for this fledgling journalistic career.

I developed a sort of mantra. In my early years at ITN, I would walk through tube stations on my way to work repeating in my head At ITN I have so far, at ITN I have so far, at ITN I have so far…It was a way of saying to myself that although things were going well so far, I shouldn’t be arrogant because it could all go wrong tomorrow. I remember consciously deciding not to say anything as foolish as At ITN I will, or At ITN I have…That would be tempting fate.

Now, nine years or so into my career at ITN, it really did look as though I had so far. Ah yes, so much success, from junior writer to senior writer, to reporter, to correspondent. I truly didn’t stop to give those insignificant little words so far another thought. But things were soon to become very bad indeed.

In the early months of 1981, I prepared myself and my family for the move to the US, scheduled for July. My three boys were aged 10, seven and five. Moya and I needed to sort out schooling, rent our house out, arrange shipment, and so on. It would be a mammoth task. But hey, in 1979 I had earned plaudits for my coverage of the Iran Revolution (had I not flown from Paris to Tehran with Ayatollah Khomeini?), then I had returned to a greatly changed Tehran to report on the American hostage crisis, as the new Islamic Republic of Iran under the Ayatollah flexed its muscle. At the beginning of 1980, it was off to Afghanistan to cover the Soviet invasion. I went into Afghanistan no fewer than five times, the last three with the Mujahedin, dressed as one of them. Once, my camera crew and I found ourselves in front of what we thought was a Soviet firing squad, up against a wall after being captured at gunpoint by Russian soldiers. Good old Boys’ Own adventures. Just what I had always dreamed of doing. Plaudit followed plaudit. My career was on track, and the track was golden.

Imagine my state of mind in 1981. I had landed the plum job at ITN, against all expectations. There could not have been a more exciting time to take up the Washington posting, with a new President in the White House. It was mine, all mine. On the personal level, I was leaving behind that beautiful and gorgeous woman I had been secretly in love with for almost a decade, and whom I had kissed in one unforgettable moment in the pouring rain. But she had given me hope by saying she would try to get over to the US to visit her family, and if she did maybe we could see each other.

We’re down in France. Bon loves it here so much. She gets gently confused, though. This morning when I brought tea up to bed, she had already dressed. I have learned not to snap now. So I quietly said, Take your clothes off and get back into bed, then after tea you can shower. She said yes, I didn’t need to get dressed.

She went into the bathroom and I listened at the door. She was whispering to herself, ‘Right, clothes off and then I shower. OK. Right, take my clothes off first…now shower.’ It was quite a relief when I heard the water come on.

That remark Bonnie had made, albeit a year or more before, about how sad it was that I wasn’t seeing my parents, had simmered in me. What I was doing to my ‘old’ family, was wrong, plain wrong, and I had to do something about it.

In July 1981, days before leaving for the US, I braced myself and made a journey. I invented an excuse for leaving the house a couple of hours earlier than usual (‘need to sort stuff out in the office’) and travelled up to London. Instead of going straight to the ITN office, I stopped off in Baker Street. Heart pounding, I entered the large block of flats immediately over the tube station, the block where I had grown up. Where my parents lived. There was a porter behind the desk, quite elderly. I recognised him. He smiled broadly when he saw me. ‘Hello, Mr John. It’s been a while. You’ll find them upstairs. Second floor. They’ll be so pleased to see you.’ I nodded, couldn’t say anything, throat closed up.

I walked along the corridor, the sights, sounds, smells of my childhood invading and battering my senses. I stood outside their door, paused, fought back tears, breathed deeply to steady myself, and rang the bell. A woman I didn’t recognise answered the door. She looked at me, frowned, then gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘There, in the kitchen,’ she said in a foreign accent, pointing to her left.

I walked to the back of the entrance hall and took the few short steps to the kitchen. Then I saw them. Mum was sitting at the kitchen table, Dad was standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Their mouths opened, shock in their eyes, bewilderment on their faces. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. My eyes filled up. Mum leapt out of the chair and flung her arms round me. I cried into her neck. Finally I looked at Dad. He had tears in his eyes, and a false-angry look on his face. ‘About bloody time,’ he said, or words to that effect. ‘Come on down to the sitting room.’

We sat and talked and talked and talked. Just one or two things to catch up on. Like several years, and three grandchildren. I gave them photos of the boys I’d secretly had printed. The years melted away. I couldn’t stay for long. I had to go in to work. I told them I was sorry from the bottom of my heart for what I had done to them, and that I would make it right again. I would be in Washington for four years, I said, but I would stay in touch, albeit surreptitiously, and one day, not far off, everything would be normal again.

They hugged me till I thought I would burst. It was the Prodigal Son. If Dad could have killed a fatted calf, he would have.

I didn’t tell them about Bonnie, because I could see no way of making my dream come true. Nor did I tell them that if it hadn’t been for her passionate remark, and the power of that kiss, I wouldn’t have had the strength to do what I had done that day. A shameful admission, but true.

I was at the computer just now. Bon came in and recited her full name—first name, middle, then surname. She smiled at me in triumph. Before I could stop myself, I said yes, that’s right, but why did you say it? Because it’s true, she said, raising her fists in triumph. This is the woman who 10 years ago taught me how to use the computer, and almost 30 years ago was responsible for my long overdue reunion with my parents.

Things in Washington began well enough. I filed reports for News at Ten from around the US. Mostly they were ‘soft’ items, as Americans rediscovered their pride after President Carter’s disastrous handling of the Iran crisis. Ronald Reagan told his people they were not to blame, there was nothing morally superior about Islam, and in his State of the Union address in 1982 he memorably defined the Soviet Union as the ‘evil empire’. Nobody had stood up to Communism like that before. We were not to know it, but it was the beginning of the process that would culminate seven years later with the destruction of the Berlin Wall and the fall of Communism. President Reagan had been right.

But something strange was happening to me. I was not settling happily into my role as US correspondent. I found the ‘soft’ stories, Look at Life stories as I dismissively called them, difficult, and when it came to political stories in Washington, I was struggling. With hindsight, I can see it clearly (in fact, I saw it clearly just a few years later): I was a ‘fireman’, it was what I had always wanted to be, and I had proved to be quite good at it. What I was not good at was unearthing stories, finding them, tracking them down. Give me a plane crash, a sudden disaster, a war, you name it, and I was in my element—get there fast, turn out report after report, come home. There was another kind of story I was also proving to be less than good at: politics. I was not, never have been, and still am not, a networker. Not for me the working lunch with contacts, probing them discreetly, getting the inside story. I had very little interest in the workings of Capitol Hill—not ideal for a US correspondent. I can state all this now, but at the time it was not quite as glaringly obvious. Me? Not good at something? Don’t be ridiculous, it must be the something that is at fault.

One further fact increased my unease. My opposite number, the BBC’s US correspondent—against whose work mine would be judged—happened to be one of the best of our generation, he of the white suit, the future Independent MP Martin Bell. Martin had already outgunned me once, covering the handover of independence to the Central American country of Belize. While I attempted to follow Princess Michael of Kent’s official schooner to an offshore island, by hiring a rickety boat with two outboard motors, one of which broke down, leaving my crew and me stranded, Martin filed a comprehensive report on the state of Belize’s economy.

I sensed that all was not right. I was given to understand, subtly but to the point, that there were rumblings in London that maybe I was not up to the job. I wasn’t fazed. Hell, I would ride it out. A good strong story or two and they would see what I was made of. But I was about to be found out.

On 2nd April 1982, Argentine forces invaded and occupied the Falkland Islands and South Georgia. From out of nowhere, Britain was on the brink of war. The United States administration took it upon itself to lead diplomatic attempts to prevent conflict, in the shape of Secretary of State Alexander Haig. He undertook a triangular diplomatic shuttle between Washington, London and Buenos Aires. The London end was covered by our political editor, a senior reporter was dispatched to Buenos Aires, and it fell to me to cover the Washington angle. This involved attending regular press conferences at the State Department, as well as off-the-record briefings by the British ambassador, Sir Nicholas Henderson, at the British Embassy.

At the State Department I was not asking the right questions, and my reports failed to capture the nuances of America’s negotiating tactics. My understanding of the subtleties offered to us at the ambassador’s briefings escaped me. So came the word from the foreign desk in London. One day the phone in the office rang and on the line was David Nicholas. The top man. The boss. ‘Are you properly plumbed in to Capitol Hill?’ he asked. ‘Of course, David,’ I replied. ‘Then tell me which senators you are speaking to. Who is briefing you? Who are you having lunch with?’ ‘Er…’

Still I was not overly concerned. Can you believe that? It would still come right, I was convinced. My posting was for four years. These were early days.

Then something happened that was to take my mind thoroughly off work-related matters. I heard from Bonnie that she was coming to the US to visit her family in New Jersey.

It is a cold wet Easter Saturday afternoon down in France and we have just watched the 1960s film 55 Days At Peking on the television, starring Charlton Heston as the hard-as-nails heroic American major and David Niven as the suave, cool and stiff-upper-lipped British ambassador. In real life, one died of Alzheimer’s, the other of motor neurone disease. Once you get caught up in the dreadful subject of brain disease, you tend to be aware of things like that.

It is getting dark by the time the film finishes. I say I will pull the curtains in the séjour. Good idea, Bon says, I will help you. Then into the kitchen to empty the dishwasher. A few minutes later she goes into the séjour and opens the curtains. I say nothing, but when the dishwasher is empty I say, gosh, it’s dark and wet, I’ll pull the séjour curtains. Good idea, she says. We do them again together. A few minutes later she goes back into the séjour and opens them.

I see the funny side and give her a big hug. She doesn’t know why she has deserved this, but she smiles.

It was all I could think of. I had to see her. I had to. I called her at home in the UK when I knew her husband would be at work. She said of course she would see me—that was why she was coming over! I was shocked. Final proof. It wouldn’t be easy, and it couldn’t be for long, she said, but somehow she would make it happen.

On a day in the summer of 1982, I met her for lunch in Washington. We threw ourselves at each other, kissed, embraced, hugged. It was slightly early, so we were able to find a quiet table in the corner of a small Italian restaurant. We sat and started talking, and talked and talked and talked. The maître d’ came to take our order again, again and again, raising his shoulders in Italian exasperation. Still we talked. Prego, signor e signore? We muttered something to him. We barely ate. So many plans, so many possibilities, all completely hopeless. I kept my hand on hers, just wanted to touch her, not let her go. In between the torrent of whispered words, a bite or two of food. Dolci, signor e signore? A shake of the head, and still the words flowed. I looked her in the eye, stroked her cheek.

She told me more about her life at home. Her husband was not entirely the attentive soul he appeared to be. She didn’t have a lot to complain about except that his life revolved around work and he didn’t share it with her, leaving her to raise their sons and clean the house. She felt neglected, lonely. ‘That night you kissed me,’ she said, ‘I knew my marriage was over.’ Stunned? I was struck dumb. But how to be together, Bonnie and me? That was the question we asked again and again, but could not answer. On and on we talked, trying to work out if there was a way we could have a future together.