Waterloo Tattoo

Letter from the hospice

Here’s me with four bears. A nurse gave us these last night, one for each of the grandchildren. Volunteers have knitted sweaters for the bears, and we could choose which ones we liked. Although it’s not a walk in Yellowstone Park here, the bears at least are tame.

One of the health care assistants (HCAs) has the melody for Waterloo Sunset tattooed on her forearm. I met her on the day of my admission last Thursday. I noticed the tattoo and asked her to explain it to me; she told me that it was her father’s favourite song. When she was helping me to the toilet this morning I saw the melody line again and had a strong memory of my own Waterloo Sunset.

Let’s go historical present, if you’ll forgive me. I am living in a caravan in a farmyard next to the allotments on Sunnyside Lane in Lancaster. I am emerging from a dark, dark period in my life. I have just lost the house I had been renting for the last five years. My daughter has left home. Although I am in recovery from the depth of what we might, at the time, have called a nervous breakdown, I am still in a bad place. I had found an agent for In Southern Waters two or three years previously, but nothing had happened. My agent had sent the manuscript to every publisher in London. Kind and encouraging rejection letters, although more welcome than aggressive and rude ones, are still rejection letters. Undaunted, I sit in my caravan, and start to write The Battle for Dole Acre.

I am the owner of an early mobile phone, not quite as big as the caravan, but not far off. It is always embarrassing sitting in The Yorkshire House with Lancaster’s rock aristocracy when my mobile phone rings, as nobody else has one. One of the few people who has the number is my agent. I receive a call from her one November evening. “Ian”, she says, “Victor Gollancz are very interested in In Southern Waters and would like to meet with you. In their offices, in London. Next week.”

“Oh”, I say. “Two problems really. I’ll need to borrow some money to get down to London, and, since I’m a filthy hippy living in a caravan, I am somewhat unconventionally dressed for meetings with publishers. I will go off to Oxfam and buy me a suit.” So I go and buy a suit and book my ticket for London the following week.

Come the day, I am very excited. Gollancz’s offices are on the corner of The Strand and Lancaster Place, opposite Somerset House. I detrain at Trafalgar Square and walk down The Strand. It is maybe 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Light is fading from the sky. Joe Orton’s Loot is playing at the Savoy Theatre. I have a very strong feeling, or hallucination, or imagined recollection, that the lights on the theatre marquee danced. Danced. And instead of saying Loot, by Joe Orton it now reads Welcome to London, Ian Marchant.

I go for my meeting with the Gollancz editor, Christine Kidney, who is quite clear that she wants to buy and edit the book. Half an hour later, I walk out on to Lancaster Place, very happy. Many years’ work and ambition have gone into this moment. I walk down Lancaster Place, and on to Waterloo Bridge. I stand in the middle of the bridge, grinning like the Cheshire Cat after a visit to the dental clinic in Turkey where vulgar people off the telly get their veneers done. The last of the sun is fading in the sky. St Paul’s, the City, the Houses of Parliament, all are lit up. I throw back my arms and my head. “Hello London,” I say. I am gazing on Waterloo Sunset, and I am in paradise.

A strong, precious memory that has stayed with me ever since, evoked by a kind HCA’s tattoo, here in St Michael’s Hospice, whilst she wiped my arse this morning.