Introduction
On Wednesday, 18 September 1996, I went into hospital for what
was considered to be a minor operation. Relatively speaking, I
suppose it was more or less minor: the removal or bypassing of a
main artery in my right leg, which had started to fur up and which
for more than a year had caused me agony. I once caught sight of
myself in a mirror at Peter Jones, with tears of pain pouring down
my face, which was ridiculous. So I arranged to have it dealt with.
I was told the whole thing would take between five and ten days.
I packed a small case with toothbrush and razor, watered the
house-plants, locked my flat and went out to the hired car. It was
mid-afternoon. No one was about: above all, no reporters or
photographers, who sometimes used to lurk in these environs. In
good spirits, I set off with one of my regular drivers to a hospital
which I knew very well, not just as a visitor: I had been a patient
there myself so I was really like a favoured guest returning to a
small hotel. The day before, I had delivered the manuscript of my
new novel, Closing Ranks, to my publishers in Kensington. My
editor was on leave, but I thought it was more ‘orderly’ if the book
was out of the way while I was in hospital. We arrived, and I told
my driver that I would telephone to let him know when to pick
me up – in about a week’s time.
I had to fill in the usual hospital forms: name, address, date of
birth, etc. and next of kin. This was vexing. I had never really
thought about next of kin. I realized that they must be my sister,
who is three years younger than I am, and my brother, fourteen
years younger. Elizabeth was happily buried away in a cottage in
West Sussex, surrounded by grandchildren whom she adored and
with a car quite capable of getting her to Worthing for Marks &
Spencer; but she had never driven to London, so I didn’t see much…
‘Once I started I couldn’t stop. I didn’t have the time but I’ve read every damn word. Bogarde is such a companionable writer that you just don’t want to let him go’
