REPORT 59 AUGUST 2007
Tim's more or less monthly blog since May 2003
Oh what the hell, we’re in profit . . .
I thought I’d make this blog a bit early and stick mainly to Australia
because the first few days of September are going to be Germany, crime
writing and, I suspect, an even more complete communications failure
than the problems experienced down under.
First, however, Princess Margaret. Sales as I write are looking very
good and everyone seems happy. In the old days before abolition of the
Net Book Agreement it used to be very easy to calculate earnings but
this has become much more difficult as discounting becomes almost
universal and uncontrollable . Pre-NBA abolition everything was based
on the cover price which in this case is twenty pounds. Thus I would
get ten per cent of the first two and a half thousand sold which would
mean five thousand, then twelve and a half percent of the next two and
a half thousand which would mean, I think, another six thousand two
hundred and fifty and then fifteen per cent of everything else. As we
have sold just over 18,000 so far that would mean another thirty nine
thousand. As the advance was forty thousand that means a profit so far
of just over ten grand, but life isn’t as simple as that. Some of the
18,000 are trade paperbacks for export which cost less than the
hardbacks and then there is the dreaded discounting. Not to mention
the two grand which was unexpectedly lopped off the final payment of
the advance to cover legal fees. Then there is my share of the Daily
Mail money and the much smaller Australian money so that…oh what the
hell, we’re in profit, we’ve more than covered the advance so everyone
is happy. Let’s just hope we go on selling till Christmas and that
some foreign countries pick it up. Come on you Germans!
Reviews have been genuinely ‘mixed’ which Ion, my editor, puts down to
many of the reviewers having a view of Princess M which is not my
view. What one has got, at worst, is a rehearsal of existing
prejudices unchanged by reading the book. I would say that, wouldn’t
I? Still, it’s a touch dispiriting when reviewers don’t pick up on the
numerous new, entertaining and revealing anecdotes. This is especially
true when you meet someone like the very bright Scott Whitmore who
runs the Lindfield bookshop in Sydney and seemed to have noticed and
enjoyed all the good new stories. I was depressed too by basic
standards of accuracy. The Standard managed to change the
subtitle from “A Life Unravelled” to “A Life Unrivalled” which is
rather different. Some people might think this trivial and the price
for the Standard being first off the block. I thought it was
sloppy and made me question the authority of the rest of the review.
Minette Marrin in the Sunday Times wittered on about the “KCMG”
with which the Princess invested the King of Swaziland when it was, as
the book made clear, a “GCMG”. I’m sure the Sunday Times subs
would say this was an arcane detail not worth bothering about. Still,
I get taken to task (rightly) for similar ‘mistakes” and I think the
same should apply ten times over when dealing with a short review
rather than a long book. Minette also thought I was unduly circumspect
about sex and drugs and that this was unacceptable in a popular
biographer. I, however think the onus on a biographer is to deal in
provable fact not unsubstantiated rumour. How would Minette feel if I
wrote stories about her sex life based solely on speculation? Pissed
off I should say, and rightly. So why not the memory of Princess
Margaret? Another (anonymous) reviewer accused me of being almost
Pooterish. Does one think so? Would it be cutting edge and unPooterish
to say “I can’t prove it but my belief is that Princess Margaret was a
lesbian drug-fiend who was permanently sloshed”?
My mother in Wiltshire had one of her Sundays seriously marred by what
she thought an insulting review in the Sunday Telegraph. This
was swiftly transmuted in to an amazing war of words reported by the
Daily Mail’s diary and all the odder because the reviewer was
Richard Davenport-Hines with whom I thought I got on perfectly well –a
fact reinforced by his comments reported in the Mail. Oh well,
I still haven’t actually read what he said and though it sounds rather
disobliging I wouldn’t accept my mother’s words as an entirely
objective source. It’s not so much that one wants enthusiasm – just a
thorough reading of the text. And I do find myself becoming less
inclined to pay attention to people who haven’t put themselves above
the firing line and tried writing books themselves. Silly, I know
but…(I have now read the Davenport-Hines review on the net and it
strikes me as quite harmless though I only read it very quickly on
screen in the internet café in Newtown run by the friendly Chinese man
who I think is going in to a novel before long. There is some mildly
amusing stuff about cricket and Cornwall, a legitimate gripe about a
repetition involving the Trevor-Roper brothers (one of D-H’s
specialities) and some interesting complaints about sloppiness
involving pronouns which I confess I didn’t recognize. I’ve also read
Hugh Massingberd’s friendly piece in the Literary Review and
accept his erudite point about the Duke of Marlborough’s nickname
being “Sunny”not “Sonny’. I stand corrected and will amend it for
later editions. I am not so convinced about whether “Tugboat Annie”
was Lord Snowdon’s Mum or Ian Fleming’s wife. (The possibly scandalous
thing is that I don’t terribly care!)
I’m sure I protest too much – those who took most umbrage about
criticism tended to be relations though I was delighted that my mother
made it into the columns of the Daily Mail. In general I was
glad to be on the other side of the world when so many of my
acquaintances were having a go at me and the Princess. It would have
mattered more, I think, if I had been brooding at home.
Australia has been on the whole pretty wonderful. The natives have
complained of the cold but although it’s been winter here the
temperatures have been as high as London and the sun has shone from a
clear blue sky nearly all the time. I’ve written some short pieces for
the Spectator – one Barossa-based, one Brisbane and one about
Australian trains. Oh and I’ve tried a piece for the business pages
for Martin Vander Weyer I’ve also done a first draft of “Aunts up the
Cross” for Slightly Foxed, embarked on some other pieces and
written more of the return of Simon Bognor (though I’m a bit glum
about finding him a publisher having recently received two letters
from editors saying in effect ‘love your stuff’ but I’m afraid there
is no room on our list. This is the lament of many published writers
and far from exclusive to me.)
I’ve done some odd speaking ‘gigs’. One night I spoke after dinner at
the New South Wales branch of the Oxford and Cambridge Societies –
about twenty-five graduates and their spouses and on another occasion
I was the first guest to address the AGM of Australia’s I Zingari
Cricket Club in their 119 year history. They were both fascinating in
their different ways. The IZ AGM was seriously terrifying even though
the 50 odd members were uniformly friendly and well-disposed. We
started with drinks at six and I didn’t stand up until almost ten
o’clock. I think it was OK. They seemed to laugh at most of my
stories, many featuring dear dead Denis Compton. I hope Denis realizes
how many of us get away with cricket talks by rehearsing stories about
him. I wore my MCC tie which was unique among the massed IZ ones –
exactly the same as the English ones, so MCC with a black stripe
added. This was a provocative gesture in itself and provoked a certain
amount of ribald comment. The age range was enormous. Current players
received cups and old and bold recalled seeing early – early – innings
of Bradman. One man said that he’d been in the Navy during 1944 and
was succeeded at Greenwich by “Writer PBH May”. Several had seen Denis
play. One was a friend of Pataudi. And so on. I’m not sure I could say
I enjoyed it but it was a seriously interesting evening even down to
my becoming a running gag along the lines of ‘well we just have two
more items before enjoying the pleasure of hearing Tim Heald’s words
of wisdom’, followed by a promotional video about New Zealand where
the next tour is due to take place. Oh well. I also addressed the
college from the lectern in Hall and afterwards had a chat with three
interested parties – a girl from Canberra, Carlos from El Salvador and
a Fellow called Matthew who works for the Financial Review. No
worries, as we say!
We took the train from Adelaide to Sydney and also the return train
from Sydney to Brisbane and another to and from Newcastle where we
stayed with friends and went to see Cardinal Cassidy, an Honorary
Fellow of the College. We love trains but even so the track between
Broken Hill and Parkes was a bone-breaker and the Brisbane train was,
well, an experience. We were supposed to arrive at Roma Street, the
Brisbane station, at 6.30 in the morning but at 6.10 we ground to a
halt because of what was described as “an environmental issue” between
Greenbank and Acacia. Penny thought this meant that the line was
blocked by rival gangs of green protesters but in fact it meant that
an oil pipe had burst so we had to reverse for two hours and more over
the state boundary to Casino where we disembarked and boarded a beaten
up double-decker to take us into Brisbane where we arrived shortly
before two. Not an auspicious start! You should be able to read a
slightly bowdlerized account of the visit in the Spectator
(which is apparently running my Finnish adventure in a few days time).
Somewhere along the line – in the train from Brisbane I suspect – I
seem to have picked up a cold which I can’t completely shake off. In
particular it has spread to the ears so that my hearing is a bit
adrift, rather as if I had a hearing aid with faulty controls. The
result – or one of them – is that I am disconcertingly unaware whether
I am shouting or whispering.
Lucy, the second daughter, came over from Auckland with her partner
Simon and we had dinner with Geoffrey Lee Martin as well as staying
the night with Micky and Sarah Peschardt in their lovely Cape Coddish
house overlooking a Pacific beach to the north of the city. Then P and
I went off to Adelaide for stuff to do with Penny’s parents’ will
while Micky took Lucy and Simon sailing in his amazing-sounding 40foot
yacht. The longer we stayed in Australia the more I felt like the
author from the garret except that everyone says I must stop
complaining about money. (On the subject of which Michael Motley, the
agent, says he has finally had a contract from Methuen for the great
Jardine in India book. This should be the greatest possible fun to
write and research but financially…well…)
I came back from Adelaide before Penny, addressed the college during
formal dinner and then spoke to my very select few in the Council Room
about words, journalism and allied subjects. Next day I did an
interview with Shelley Gare at the Sheraton on the Park for the other
New Zealand Sunday paper. She was very sympathetic and had taken a
huge amount of trouble. Her copy of Princess Margaret was a forest of
yellow stickers and she had not only read the book but enjoyed the
jokes. She had worked for the Sunday Times and the National
Magazine Company in London and seemed refreshingly professional.
Fingers crossed but I have high hopes of becoming world famous in New
Zealand. (The phone has just rung and a foreign-sounding female voice
from Brisbane told me that I would be receiving a free mobile phone
within three days. No doubt it is only free if I take out a lifetime’s
supply of Viagra! It obviously doesn’t matter where you are, the
mobile-phone-givers will track you down eventually!)
After the train trip to Newcastle and back to see old Hong Kong
friends, David and Mary Stewart, who run some up-market, bijou
self-catering cottages I was taken off by the fascinatingly erudite
(Balkans, Arabic, Libya, Ethiopia etc) Father Paul Stenhouse who is an
honorary fellow to see the village of Cobbitty where he was brought
up. A fascinating graveyard full of his ancestors. He gave me a
history of a mediaeval war in Ethiopia which he had translated into
English. The first time ever and later his mother’s memories of
Cobbitty in her childhood which he had taken down and transcribed.
Fascinating. I wish more people tried oral history.
Tonight the launch party for Princess Mags. Fun. Fifty or so in the
Tower Room and an eclectic mixture of university people, Weidenfeld
contacts and our own friends. David Daintree said a few words as did I
and then a few of us adjourned for oysters and chicken bits plus lots
more wine to a newly converted grand dining room in the Rector’s
lodgings. And so, late, to bed.
A run-down now. I have a session planned with an aspiring author who
is shortly heading off to Jesus, Oxford for a course in creative
writing. Creative writing? Oxford? One must be joking. We have tickets
for the opera tonight. The Barber of Seville. Farewell dinner in
Crow’s Nest with Rick and Judy the following evening. An old teaching
colleague of Penny’s, Rhondda, is coming up from Melbourne for the day
on Sunday. College farewells on Monday and then good-bye to Australia.
All good stuff. The Australian surprised us by running a five page
extract with good photos as originally planned and not as they had
warned a fortnight later. The New Zealand paper ran Shelley Gare’s
piece across a full page and Lucy, fresh from the national scallop
festival on the Coromandel – 6,000 people many dressed as scallops! –
seemed suitably impressed.
The college caterers baked a smart chocolate cake for our farewell
tea; Parramatta was fun and a pretty boat ride; the sun is shining;
Derek Parker, returned from England, sent an e-mail from his house in
Mosman saying he was afraid he had missed me; Penny is doing the
ironing prior to departure. I shall finish this off tomorrow before
sending it over to John, the web-master. We’ve done a lot over the
last six weeks or so and Australia has been stimulating as it always
seems to be.
Tim Heald
