‘All I ask of a woman is that she feel gently towards me
when my heart feels kindly towards her,
and there shall be the soft, soft tremor as of unheard bells between us.
It is all I ask.
I am so tired of violent women lashing out
and insisting on being loved, when there is
no love in them.’
Shortly after this, Moya and I had the grand-daddy of all rows, the one that marked the end. It began with a classic domestic, a kind of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf? without the other couple, and it ended with us both realising that the marriage was over. Things had been said and done from which there was no way back any more.
On Sunday 13th February 1983, with the help of my cameraman and his van, I moved out of the large house rented by ITN in a suburb of Washington DC and into a bedsit near Rockville Park close to the centre of the city.
Lying in bed this morning, Bon said something. I asked, ‘What did you say?’ She said ‘I don’t know but I’ll know by next year.’ We both dissolved in giggles.
Bonnie said she wouldn’t be able to come over to join me until late April. There was no question of her bringing the boys because she didn’t want to disrupt their schooling at a crucial stage when I would be in Washington for only a limited time anyway. She had to sort out their school arrangements, clothes, all the normal domestic things she would be leaving behind. I told her how sorry I was she was having to go through all that, but she said that at least her husband was behaving very reasonably, given the circumstances. He was hardly happy that his wife was about to leave him, but he told her he would not stand in her way or make things unnecessarily difficult.
Late April was more than two months away. I am not by nature a patient person, but I put myself through a self-designed patience course. When taking the escalator at my local metro station, I forced myself to stay still and wait until my feet reached the step-off point at the very top before moving. In the street I slowed my pace just a notch. When eating I chewed each mouthful that little bit longer. In short, every activity I performed, I tried to make it take a little more time. That way, I felt, the two months or so might seem slightly less long.
Then something came to my rescue—at least, that was how it felt. The Queen and Duke of Edinburgh were to make a tour of the west coast of America. Surprisingly, during 30 years on the throne and dozens of official visits the world over, the Queen had never visited California. It was announced that in March they would more than rectify this, starting in San Diego in southern California, going right up the coast and across the border into Canada, ending the tour in Vancouver.
By now, even with my mind focused on other matters, I was coming to realise that my reputation as ace correspondent was taking something of a battering in London. A colleague back in the newsroom tipped me off that the knives were out. It was worrying, of course, but I still failed to appreciate the gravity of it, even when I was told that those wielding the knives were pretty senior figures. I knew I had a four-year contract, all right maybe I was going through a bit of a trough, but one good story and hey, all would be right again. The royal visit to the west coast was heaven-sent.
It began badly and got worse. I can’t now remember what the content of the first report I satellited to London was, but I do remember the foreign editor telling me it was considered transmittable on News at Ten only after some major re-editing in London. The high point of the visit was to be the arrival of the royal couple in Los Angeles. The plan was for them to arrive by boat, accompanied by a flotilla, and to be greeted with fanfare by President Reagan and First Lady Nancy as they stepped ashore.
The problem, though, was that a day earlier a storm had blown up, the rain came down in torrents, the sea became dark and treacherous, and the forecast was of no let-up for days. There was a hasty rescheduling of events, with the royal arrival now happening in the rather less spectacular form of a motorcade. I shrugged this off and filed a standard report, pointing out the change of plan, but focusing on what was planned for the Queen and Duke—walkabouts, a visit to Hollywood, a banquet hosted by the Reagans, Frank Sinatra to sing for the Queen, British actors and actresses based in Hollywood to meet her, and so on. All in all, I thought I had done a pretty good job.
London did not agree. The BBC report—Martin Bell, of course—had been superb, I was told. Graphic footage of raging seas and tossing boats, people dashing for cover through a biblical downpour, stunned locals saying they had never seen anything like it, flustered officials struggling to reschedule everything at the last minute—and this was California in the spring! I was ordered to do a swift catch-up report, with a warning that much better coverage was expected from me.
Did I take this to heart and buck up my ideas? Judge for yourself. I attended a banquet to which I received a personal invitation. It said President and Mrs Ronald Reagan, and guests of honour Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, request the company of John Suchet at a banquet…Well, you would go too, wouldn’t you? In the presentation line I met the legendary Alistair Cooke, journalist and broadcaster famed for his Letter from America on BBC radio. When I reached the royal couple, the Queen proffered a tiny gloved hand in such a way that I only grasped the tips of her fingers. Expecting the Duke to be something of a ‘man’s man’, I gave him a knowing smile and pointed out I was a journalist. He took my hand, and in one swift movement I found myself several feet away. So that’s how they do it, I thought.
The evening went well. I snatched a quick ‘on the hoof’ couple of words with Frank Sinatra, I interviewed a young Anthony Hopkins trying to make a name for himself in Hollywood, Julie Andrews gave me a smile that would have melted an iceberg and answered my fawning questions graciously, and even an 87-year-old George Burns did a comic turn for me. I basked in what was really rather an exciting occasion for a journalist, forgetting the golden rule that a good journalist will observe, rather than participate. My report made News at Ten, but won no plaudits.
Have I finished my tale of woe, you ask? Oh dear me no. British officials briefed me that the Queen and Duke were to be guests of the Reagans at their ranch in the Californian hills, and asked me if I would like a place with my camera crew on the press bus. Of course I said yes. I did not change my mind, even when the kindly Martin Bell (perhaps sensing I needed a bit of guidance) advised me not to go. You’ll be out of touch for hours, he said. Better to stay in Los Angeles and take coverage from American TV. He was right, of course. Sure, I got excellent coverage of the Queen and President Reagan riding horses in torrential rain, of the two couples posing for the cameras again in a downpour, and even picked up the sound of Nancy prompting her husband when a question was thrown by a reporter (not me). I knew I had enough for a good piece.
So had Martin. Just as good as me, and he had stayed at base and filmed a lot of other material to give his report more breadth and gravitas. (Shades of Belize.) I was thoroughly bested again.
All right. I shall spare you any more self-inflicted humiliation. By the end of the trip, my bosses in London had more or less given up on me. I was pretty much a lost cause. On a personal level, it was even worse. The continual rain and cold temperatures had got to me. By the time I reached Vancouver, I had a nasty cough, which I could not shake. When I breathed deeply, fluid rattled in my lungs. This had not happened to me before. I went to see a doctor. At first he thought I might have contracted pneumonia. In the event, he diagnosed bronchitis. I was slightly hurt when I was offered not an ounce of sympathy from London.
If I had any doubt that my stock had plummeted, it was settled once and for all when a senior foreign desk journalist announced he was coming to Washington and wanted to see me. In the office he sat me down and explained that the editor-in-chief, David Nicholas, was seriously worried about me. What had happened? My reports were shocking. Why? In mitigation I explained what had happened to me on the domestic front. It must have affected my journalistic judgment, I said. He said my marital problems were an open secret in London, but that